To Rise Above Shadows
by NerdAnel the Wise
Summary: Two young Southrons set out reclaim their people’s honor, lost ages ago in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. PG13 for warfare imagery. COMPLETED!
1. Introduction

**To Rise Above Shadows**

**_Introduction_******

The great Maia Arien once again set sail from the Gates of Morn, standing at the prow of her great ship that bore the Sun: the last fruit of Laurelin.  As she arched higher into the sky, she began to pass over the eastern lands of Middle Earth.  Below her, the countless sands of the great desert of the South glittered.  This was Harad, a country ruled by the Southrons, or Haradrim as they were often called.  North of the desert was a black fog her eyes of bright flame could not pierce.  However, she perceived an evil force within its confines.  Her heart burned hotter at this, knowing that Sauron, servant of Morgoth, dwelt there in the lifeless land of Mordor. 

 Long ages had she watched the world from high above.  She had seen the rise and fading of the Elves, the coming of Men, the building and destruction of the great cities.  She had watched as tiny seedlings grew into towering trees; she had seen the entire life of a person from their birth to their death.  One thing, however, had remained constant throughout the ages: the struggle between the forces of Light and Darkness.  She herself was a powerful ally of the Light, for the minions of Darkness feared her and shunned her bright rays that forced them into the shadows.  Morgoth himself had fled into the deepest pits of his fortress at her first rising.  

Despite her power and light, she felt she could do little in this eternal war.  Long had she watched the hearts of Haradrim become corrupted by the sly words of Sauron.  They had also suffered under the rule of corrupt Nùmenoreans, which led them to hate and distrust all of that otherwise noble race of Men.  Now those of the North shunned them as heartless savages forever bound to the Dark Lord's evil will, though there had been a time when they had looked up to her as a beacon of hope.  Now they took little notice of her beauty and splendor, instead cursing her for relentlessly burning down on their parched land.  Many a time she had whispered fervently to the winds of Manwë, asking for someone to guide the Haradrim's hearts back to her light, hoping that the Valar in the West would hear her plea.  

Indeed, the Valar themselves had seen these events and others unfold in Arda.  They sent the Istari: five wise Maiar who went among Men, guiding them to do deeds of honor and valor.  Olorin, Curunìr, and Aiwendil dwelt in the North, while Alatar and Pallando, the Blue Wizards, traveled to the South and East.  Soon, however, it seemed that the Haradrim and Easterlings were beyond saving, for the memory of the corrupt Men of Nùmenor was still burning fresh in their minds.  They could not be made to believe those of the North could be trusted.  

The Istari Alatar and Pallando soon faded out of the knowledge of the others, who deemed that they had ultimately failed in their mission, instead forcing their rule upon Men with their great sorcery; Dark Lords themselves, as it were.  In truth, however, they had been forced to hide themselves, lest Sauron, who was far mightier than they (the least of the Istari), discover them and force them into his service.  Knowing that if their powers were added to his he would be nigh unstoppable, they forsook it, instead only keeping their great knowledge.  Soon after they took separate roads: Alatar, the greater of the two, to the far East; Pallando to the southern lands of Harad.  

In the whole of the existence of Arda, the Blue Wizards indeed seem of little importance.  In most ways they had failed: both Easterlings and Haradrim marched with Sauron in the War of the Ring, alongside orcs, Nazgùl, and all evil things that walked the earth.  However, in small ways they did succeed; turning willing hearts, however few, back to the Light, sewing small seeds of hope for peace between all Men.  

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Disclaimer: I don't own Tolkien's works, they belong to the Tolkien estate, etc.

Now that the my attempt at a dramatic intro is done…

…Welcome to my fic.  First off let me say that I SWEAR ON THE PRECIOUSSS this will not be Mary Sue!  Or a Legomance!  In fact, I may not even mention said Elf…*hears shrieks of horror* Eheh, well, back to more relevant things: this is _ever_ so slightly AU due to what I have done with the Blue Wizards, and the fact I'm making up cultural aspects for the Haradrim, but other than that it is canon (following the book, not the movie).  Thanks very much for reading, and reviews as always are appreciated!

~Nerd_Anel, formerly DK Illuser

A/N: As you may have guessed in the intro and from the summary, I will be using a lot of aspects from The Silmarillion.  If you haven't read it, you'll still get it, and if you have…well…you rock my socks ^^ Also, I know in a lot of material I've read, the Haradrim seem inherently evil and cruel.  However, I believe that one cannot be automatically evil, and it's really your environment that shapes you, so I'll use that concept here.  

2nd A/N: Heh, sorry I didn't make it clear, but this does take place during LOTR.  In later chapters the exact time will become clearer.

Tarock- Thanks very much for reviewing!  That line of Faramir's/Sam's is, in my opinion, one of the most poignant in the whole of LOTR.  I'm glad you agree!


	2. Dust

**Chapter 1**

**Dust**

Faraj kept his head down as his company made their way up the Harad Road.  Not far off to his right he heard the massive footfalls of one of the mùmakil.  He put his head up to see where it was, but his eyes only met blinding, swirling dust kicked up by the many scores of men and the three great beasts that walked with them.  He quickly lowered his head once more and pulled the cloth up farther on his face.  Ahead he heard the lead men begin the marching chant.  He reluctantly lent his own hoarse voice to it, throat parched from lack of water.  Despite this, he felt invigorated as he and his fellow soldiers began to chant in earnest, their wearied steps now an orderly march.  That was its purpose: to unify the men so they acted as one.  

These soldiers were also of one mind: to conquer the North.  Sauron himself had promised them its rich lands.  Looking at their own parched desert, they had readily agreed to do his bidding.  Faraj had left his wife and sleeping children early that morning to begin the long march north.  He and his fellow warriors hope that one day their families might be able to have a life where food and water were constants, not things one counted themselves lucky for having.  They had grown to hate the Men of the North, for they had denied them this time and again.  They had shown them no mercy.  They would receive none.

The grim desert men gave one last shout as the column dragged on.

Lasca woke up abruptly.  She lay still for a moment, staring up at the peaked ceiling of her family's tent.  Suddenly she jumped up and tore through the flap, stopping when her eyes met the sight of a far-off trail of dust. 

        "I am sorry, but your father has already left."

        She turned to see her mother walk over with a fresh jug of camel's milk.  "Why didn't he wake me?" she demanded, eyes threatening to tear up.

        "He wanted you to sleep," she answered simply as she poured some milk into a bowl.  "Here, drink this."

        "I'm not thirsty, mother," Lasca answered evenly.  Her mother sighed.

        "I know, dear, this is hard for you.  It is hard on all of us, seeing so many men go off to war—"

        "—that we'll probably never see again." Lasca finished, dropping down on the still-cool sand in defeat.  Her mother started to reply, but stopped, instead squeezing her shoulder before walking off to tend to her younger siblings.

        Lasca knew she shouldn't say such things, for her mother had enough to worry about.  She felt almost numb.  Her father had always been there.  She had loved him, but they had shared no special bond.  He was just a constant in her life.  When the summons had come for him and the other men, in her ignorance she only half realized what it meant.  That night it had truly hit her: her father was going, and probably wouldn't be coming back.  She promised herself that she would get up with the sun to see him off.  Now that her opportunity to say goodbye was long gone, she desperately wanted to see him, to let him know she cared.  Helplessness ate at her.  She grabbed the bowl of milk and began to drink, trying to focus her mind on its richness and flavor, desperate for anything to distract herself. 

        She went through the motions of her daily chores, her gaze always straying to the far off cloud of dust.  By noon, however, it disappeared, as well as the slight comfort she felt when her father was still in sight.  

        That evening, as Lasca tended the fire, she heard a far-off chant coming from south of the camp.  Heading over to a gathering of other curious tribe members, she heard that it was another company heading north.  Within a half hour the silhouette of the first mùmak could be seen, the red sun gleaming like blood on its ivory tusks.  If she closed her eyes, Lasca could feel the rhythmic pounding of its enormous feet.  She had seen one before, but that was many years ago.  However, she could still remember the beast clearly in her mind.  Their sheer size was terror inspiring; their lethal tusks only added to their imposing presence.   Below the beast marched scores of armed men.  

To her left she saw a commotion in the crowd.  Two scouts had arrived already, and they were asking the tribe leader for leave to rest at this oasis, for it was the only one for many miles. The older man seemed reluctant, but finally agreed.  The young children cheered: it meant that the company, including the mùmakil, would spend the night close to the camp.  All Haradrim children grew up on tales of the great beasts, but few lived to see one up close.  Lasca's younger brothers were tugging at her dress excitedly, begging her to come with them to see the mùmak.  She told them to ask their mother, and smiled despite herself as they ran off.  Seeing the giant beast had heartened her slightly.  What army could stand against such size and power?

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Since that was really short, I'll post the next chapter up sometime within the next day (I already have it typed up).  Review replies will be posted on the chapter you reviewed on.  And just to let you know, the plot will move fairly slowly the next few chapters or so.  However, they'll be pretty short, and I'll be posting quickly for a while because I've typed up quite a bit of it already.

Hioga-chan- Hey again!  Thanks for reviewing, though as my bff, should you really count?  Or are you just being nice?  Just kidding, I value your opinion highly. ^^ And it takes place during the LOTR timeline.

Ainu Laire- Yes!  Someone else who has read the Silm!  Glad you like ^^ And again it takes place during LOTR (sorry I didn't make that clear, I'm putting it in the author's note at the beginning since two reviewers were stumped ^^;)  However, I'll hafta let you keep wondering about canon charas *devious look* By the way, I was peeking at your bio, and I just wanna say that I'm happy someone else likes Faramir (my most favorite character ^^)

Jen Littlebottom- Thanks for reviewing, and I agree with you- history generally is written by the victors.  By doing the perspective of the Haradrim, I hope to make my story more original.


	3. Prisoner

Chapter 2 

**Prisoner**

As Lasca went to fill the water jug the next morning, she heard a strange murmuring coming from a worn tent set apart from the others.  She stopped, and realized it was someone speaking in a language she couldn't understand.  Curiosity overcame her, and she slowly made her way over, pausing at the tent flap.

        "H-hello?  Who is in there?"

        "What?!  What do you want?" a startled voice cried out from in the tent.  Lasca pushed back the flap, and in the darkness, made out the form of a robed old man sitting on the floor.

        "Who are you?" she asked slowly.

        "That is none of your business, girl.  Now, unless you are bringing me water or food, I ask you to leave."

        "Water or food?  

        "Yes!  Yes, Valar curse it, I am a prisoner.  Now plea—"

        "A prisoner?"

        Suddenly, a warrior from the passing company approached the tent.  "You there!  Get away from him!"  Roughly he grabbed Lasca and drew her away from the tent, eyeing it like it was something dangerous.

        "Who is he?" she asked tentatively.  The soldier's face darkened.

        "He is a magic user, a dangerous wizard.  We caught him on our way here, far out on the desert.  None are to go near him; we dare not even set a close watch on him, for his words ensnare the mind.  Now leave and do not return!"  With that he stalked off.

Late that evening the host prepared to depart.  Lasca glanced towards the prisoner's tent, and noticed two guards escorting the old man to the leader's tent.  She joined the crowd surrounding them, wondering what his fate would be.  After a bit of debating, it was decided the prisoner would stay with the tribe, after the captain gave the leader quite a few gold coins to pay for the extra strain this would place on their provisions.

"Now," shouted the tribe leader above the murmur of the crowd.  "I ask one of you to volunteer to take charge of him."

At this a gasp issued from the crowd.  Who would be foolish enough to willingly be near a magic user?  Lasca herself was incredulous that their leader would ask a simple commoner to take charge of a supposedly powerful wizard.  _He could take over their mind, or cast a spell on—Wait!  That's it!_  She hesitated, but then carefully made her way through the crowd.

"I, I shall."

The crowd went silent.  Her mother closed her eyes, as if in pain.  The tribe leader was surprised he had such a young volunteer, but did not question her.  She was only a simple commoner, and a girl at that.  She was expendable.  "Very well.  Take him back to his tent."  Lasca took the rope that bound his hands and led him through the crowd, which gave them a wide birth.  Already she heard whispers that she was cursed.

"So, you again," the old man stated wryly.  Lasca said nothing until they reached his tent, far from the crowd.  Then she turned to him.

"They say you are a powerful wizard.  Is that true?" she whispered urgently.  His gaze fell.

"Yes, I suppose you might say that," he answered finally.

"Can you do a protection spell?  A protection spell on my father?!" she asked, pleading in her eyes.  He knew what she meant, for he had seen that same look of fear in the eyes of many of this supposedly cruel race.  He stroked his long beard.

"Even if I could, what makes you think I would?"

"I see it in your face: you are no evil wizard.  You do not have the heart to refuse me," she answered confidently (as she had rehearsed in her mind).  The old man laughed.

"You assume much.  Though, I suppose this is for a good cause.  Very well, I shall do as you say, on one condition."

"What is it?"

"Only that you keep your heart and mind open.  Now, goodnight, ah—"

        "Lasca."

        "Yes, Lasca.  And I am Pallando."

        "Er, goodnight, then." With that she left to find her mother, knowing she had a lot of explaining.  Pallando went into the tent as he saw guards take up their stations.  

        "Yes, Lasca.  I do not think our meeting was mere chance.  Perhaps you shall be the one to listen to my words, and take them farther than I ever could hope to. " 

A star winked at him through a hole in the cloth as he mused to himself.

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Hioga-chan- Glad you like her!  Now hope that I have enough skill as an author so she doesn't mutate into a Mary Sue!

Ainu Laire-  ^^ Weee, Blue Wizards!  Thanks for reviewing!


	4. Tales

**Chapter 3**

**Tales**

Lasca immediately realized a change in the atmosphere of the camp that morning.  As she left to bring Pallando food and water, she could feel people warily staring at her.  She didn't even want to think about her mother.  Lasca had tried to explain her plan to protect her father, but she had barely listened.  She did say, however, that she would always love her, though she greatly feared "that sorcerer" would ensnare her mind.  The only true comfort Lasca found was in her two brothers, who did not understand their elders' fear.  _It's worth it, though,_ she thought,_ if Father comes back safe._

        "Took you long enough," grumbled Pallando as she entered the tent.  He immediately consumed the dried meat and fruit she brought him.  "Has the company left yet?" he questioned.

        "Yes, late last night," Lasca answered before asking a question that had been growing on her mind.  "What did you mean when you said I had to keep and open heart and mind, for my end of the deal?"

        "That you let go of any superstitions or grudges you may hold, and that you listen to what I have to say."

        "So, I just have to listen to you?"

        "Yes; for now that is all I ask."

        "Have you cast the protection spell yet?  For my father?"

        Pallando paused before answering carefully.  "Yes, it is working as we speak.  Now, if you don't mind, I should like to get out of this stuffy tent and breathe the fresh air for a while."

        "Er, I don't know if the guards will allow it—" Lasca began, but Pallando was already outside.  She hurried after him, lest he be killed on sight.  For the first time, she saw him in daylight.  His hair and beard had obviously been black at one point, but now all that remained was dark streaks in his otherwise silver hair.  His robes were worn and tattered.  Lasca could barely make it out, but she knew under all the dust, they were blue.  He was standing up now, and was at least a head taller than Lasca.  He turned to look at her with piercing blue eyes.

        "Well, what are you staring at?  Lead me over to that tree so we can sit in the shade."

        Lasca did so, but felt a tug on her lips as she thought about what they must look like.  "You know, this is more like taking care of my grandfather than a dangerous criminal."

        As they sat down, Pallando attempted to give her a withering gaze, but could not do it for long, and instead started laughing.  "I am hardly a dangerous criminal!  I was out alone on the desert when they found me, traveling on an ornery old donkey.  All of a sudden armed warriors and three huge oliphaunts surrounded me…and now here I am."

        "Why did they capture you?"

        "No doubt they had heard tales told of a sorcerer, bearded and dressed in blue robes.  I have been around for a while, and I have quite the infamous reputation, you know."

        His eyes twinkled as he said this.  Lasca did not know what to make of him.  "Who _are _you, really?  Where did you come from?" 

        A change came over his face.  His gaze shifted to the windblown desert, but he seemed to see far past it.  Now he looked less like an ornery old man and more like a wise, albeit tired, one.  "I came from across the Sea, I and four others." He turned to Lasca.  "Do you know what is across the Sea, in the uttermost West?" she shook her head.  "It is the Blessed Realm, a land free from the bitterness of death and sadness.  There is a great city there, and all the lands about it are green with life.  That is where the Valar dwell, the gods of this world."

        Lasca again did not know what to make of it.  It all sounded far too good to be true.  Perhaps the sun had gotten to him.  "Why did you leave a place like that?" she asked skeptically.  He paused.

        "I shall tell you, someday, but now is not the time."

        "Then, what are the Valar like?  I have only ever heard of one god-like being, and that was Morgoth.  Perhaps Sauron too."  Pallando flinched visibly at the name Morgoth.

        "Do not mention the Black Foe of the World!  He was an evil like no other, and now he is imprisoned in the Void, thank Iluvatar.  And Sauron—" he stopped, thinking better of speaking ill of the Dark Lord, for he knew the Haradrim were allied with him.  Lasca was looking at him questioningly again.

        "Who is Iluvatar?  Is he one of the Valar?"

        "No, no, He is the Lord for Always, the Creator.  He is above all else.  He made the Valar."

        "Created the gods?  But I thought gods did the creating."

        "Well, I guess you could say they did, but He made it all exist."

        "…Is the heat getting to you?" 

        "NO!  I am fine!"

        "But you're not making any sense."

        "Bah!  I suppose I must start at the beginning of it all.  Very well, but you had better listen closely…"

        Through the rest of the morning he told her of Iluvatar, and the Ainur, and the Great Music.  Lasca did listen, but was not sure if she truly believed him.  She had never heard any story that described the creation of the world; it had just always been there.  She pondered this as she went through her chores later that day.  That evening, she timidly asked her mother if she knew how the world came to be.  All she got was an alarmed glance, and a reprimand stating that it didn't matter, now tend to the fire.  Having been raised to believe just that, Lasca felt that her mother was probably right.  Remembering her promise, however, she tried not to totally disbelieve Pallando, just in case he could read minds.

For many mornings after that, Pallando rambled on about the Valar and the earliest days of the World.  He told about the different Valar and what they had created in the world.  He tread carefully, however, when talking of Melkor (later Morgoth) falling into evil, for he knew that some of the Men under the dominion of Sauron worshipped him.  Thankfully, Lasca seemed to have only heard him mentioned before, for she was just a girl, so no one sought to give her any knowledge of the past.  As he talked, she would listen politely, nodding to encourage him on.  She felt as if she was just being nice and listening to an old man's tales, but a part of her wanted to believe the fantastic stories were true. 

One afternoon as she milked her family's camel, she thought about the stories of her own people.  Any supernatural Haradrim tales that she had heard usually dealt with Sauron.  It was not to say, however, that they were fond of him.  Lasca knew that they served under him because they hoped to acquire the rich northern lands.  Her own father had left to fight under him.  She herself did not know how she felt about the Dark Lord; it was just something she had lived with her whole life.  "What do you think of Sauron?" she asked the camel, who only looked at her with its long lashed eyes and chewed its cud calmly in reply, clearly stating it did not care about some great ugly Dark Lord.  Lasca laughed and half-wished that she might turn into a camel herself and not have to worry about more than annoying sandflies.

        "Lasca, what do you know of Elves?" Pallando asked the next day.  She thought for a moment.

        "Well, I do not know very much about them," she began.  "Any stories I have heard only said they were beings of terrible power, but I do not know if that is true." She looked at him.  "Have you met an Elf before?"

        "Yes, I have met many Elves in my time." 

        He began telling her of the coming of the Firstborn: how they were born beside the waters of Cuiviènen; how they undertook the great journey west, how some were lost on the way.

        "What happened to the lost Elves?" Lasca asked, genuinely curious but trying not to show it.

        "Some, like Elwë Singollo, went on to build great kingdoms.  Many, however, fell into the hands of Melkor, and were shut away in deep dungeons.  By his cruel arts they were corrupted and twisted.  From these Melkor bred the hideous race of orcs, in mockery of the fair and beautiful Elves."

        "Are you saying _orcs _came from Elves?" Lasca questioned, with a shocked look on her face.

        "You've seen orcs before?"

        "Yes, when messages came from Sauron.  I think my father said they were different from regular orcs, though: larger and able to stand the sun.  They were truly hideous and disgusting—and their eyes were filled with malice.  Elves don't look like that…do they?"

        At this Pallando blanched slightly.  "Dear Valar, no!  They are the exact opposite, in every way.  They are tall and fair of face, and most very wise and learned, for they are immortal.  Death can only take them by wounds or by deep sadness.  Now, pray let me get on with my tale, for the sun is already high in the sky."

        Lasca's mother was very worried.  Every morning now for nearly two weeks, after she had fetched the water, her daughter had been listening to the wizard's stories.  Sometimes she would listen in the evening as well.  Much of the tribe shunned her, for they believed she was now in his control.  What worried her more than that, however, was that it seemed her daughter did not seem to notice or care.  She kept saying that if she listened to the old man, he would cast a protection spell on her father so he would come home safely.  She had tried to reason with her, saying that there was no way of telling whether he would keep his promise, but Lasca insisted on trusting him, for she felt it was the only way.  Her mother could only picture too well in her mind what was most likely to happen.  Her husband would be dead and her daughter would be heartbroken.  The tribe would no longer accept her and she would not be able to find a husband when she came of age.  They would run her out of the camp, leaving her to die in the desert, thinking it would only be a matter of time before she turned on them with some powerful magic she had learned from the wizard.  As she lay in the tent, she turned her head and saw Lasca breathing peacefully.  _If there are any gods out there,_ she prayed silently, _please keep my daughter safe._

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Okay, that was a bit longer, but really just a filler chapter.  The next one is much longer and there's plot development, rejoice!  (In my humble opinion) It gets more interesting, too.  Thanks very much for sticking with me thus far!

Jen Littlebottom- Thanks ^^


	5. Truth

**Chapter 4**

**Truth**

"Pallando, I've been wondering," Lasca began.  "Why is it that we are sundered from the Northern Men?  Why is it that our languages and beliefs are different?"

        The old man sighed heavily, for he had known the time would come when that tale would have to be told.  Over the time he had known Lasca, he had grown fond of the Southron girl.  He did not want to answer her, but went on nonetheless.

"It began when Maedhros Fëanor's son heard of the deeds of Beren and Lùthien.  Those words lifted up his heart, for now he deemed that Morgoth was not unassailable.  However, he also knew that one by one, the Dark Lord would destroy the lords of the free peoples if they did not unite.  Thus he began counsels for this, and they are called the Union of Maedhros.  

        "Alas, Orodreth and the Elves of Nargothrond trusted him little and did not join with him, for the memory of the deeds of his brothers Celegorm and Curufin were fresh in their minds.  Therefore came only a small company from them, led by Gwindor son of Guilin, against the will of Orodreth.  

        "Little help came from the Hidden Realm of Doriath, for King Thingol was ill pleased with the haughty words by which the Sons of Fëanor demanded the Silmaril he possessed.  Thinking of the torment his daughter Luthien and the pain Beren had endured to win it, he desired to keep it the more.  Therefore he sent back their messengers with scornful words.  Maedhros gave no reply, for he had now begun to devise the league and the union of Elves, though his brothers were wroth to leave Thingol's words of contempt unanswered.  Then it was that the King of Doriath fortified the boundaries of his realm and went not to war, nor any out of Doriath save Mablung and Beleg, who were unwilling to have no part in these great deeds.  

        "Maedhros had the help of the Naugrim (the Dwarves), both in armed force and in weaponry; and the smithies of Nogrod and Belegost were busy in those days.  And he gathered together once more all his brothers and all those who would follow them; and the men of Bòr and Ulfang were marshaled and trained for war, and they summoned yet more of their kin out of the East.  Furthermore in the west Fingon, ever the friend of Maedhros, took counsel with him and in Hithlum the Noldor and the Men of the house of Hador prepared for war.  In the forests of Brethil Halmir, the people of Haleth did likewise, under the rule of Haldir.  And to Turgon in hidden Gondolin the tidings also came. 

        "The grave mistake came, however, when Maedhros sought too soon to test his strength and drove the Orcs out of all northern regions of Beleriand.  From this Morgoth was warned of the uprising of the Eldar and the Elf-friends, and took counsel against them.  Many spies he sent among them, and soon he had treacherous Men that were deep in the secrets of the Sons of Fëanor.

        "Maedhros resolved to assault Angband, the stronghold of Morgoth, form both east and west.  He purposed to march in open over the sands of Anfauglith and draw the forces of Morgoth out, and then Fingon would issue forth from the passes of Hithlum.  Thus they thought to take the might of Morgoth as between anvil and hammer, and break it to pieces.

        "On the appointed day, the morning of Midsummer, the trumpets of the Eldar greeted the rising sun; and in the east was raised the standard of the sons of Fëanor, and in the west the standard of Fingon, High King of the Noldor.  With Fingon was arrayed a vast force, though such was their skill that they were completely hidden within the woods of Ered Wethrin.  Among them stood the valiant brothers Hùrin and Huor with their host of Men from Dor-lòmin.

        "It was then that Fingon looked towards the mountains above Angband.  He perceived a dark cloud was about it, and knew that the wrath of Morgoth was aroused, and their challenge was accepted.  A shadow of doubt fell upon his heart, and he looked towards the sands of Anfauglith, hoping to espy the dust rising beneath the hosts of Maedhros.  He knew not that Maedhros was hindered in his setting forth by the guile of Uldor the accursed, who deceived him with false warnings of assault from Angband.

        "But now a cry went up, passing up the wind from the south, and Elves and Men lifted their voices in wonder and joy.  For unsummoned and unlooked for Turgon had opened the leaguer of Gondolin, and was come with an army ten thousand strong.

        Now Morgoth, who knew much of the designs of his enemies, chose his hour, and trusting in his treacherous servants to hold back Maedhros and prevent the union of his foes he sent a force seemingly great (though was only a part of his full host) towards Hithlum.

        "The hearts of the Noldor grew hot with the sight of their enemy, and they wished to assail their foes upon the plain, but Hùrin spoke against it.  Still Maedhros came not, and though the host grew impatient, Hùrin urged them still to wait.

        "But the captain of Morgoth had been commanded to draw out Fingon swiftly from the hills at all costs.  When the taunting of the orcs had failed, he brought forth a captive, Gelmir the brother of Gwindor, within sight of the hosts of the Eldar, and they had blinded him.  Cruelly they hewed off his hands and feet, and his head last.

        "By ill chance Gwindor had seen all, and with wrath now kindled to madness, he leapt forth on horseback, and many riders with him.  They pursued the heralds and slew them, and drove deep into the main host.  And seeing this all the host of the Noldor was set on fire, and Fingon let sound the trumpets, and all the host of Hithlum leapt forth from the hills in sudden onslaught.  So fell and swift was their onset that almost the designs of Morgoth went astray.  Before his army could be strengthened, it was swept away, and the banners of Fingon were raised before the walls of Angband.  At the forefront was Gwindor and the Elves of Nargothrond, and even now they could not be restrained; and they burst through the Gate and slew the guards upon the very stairs of Angband, but they were trapped there, and all were slain save Gwindor only, whom was taken alive, for Fingon could not come to their aid.  By many secret doors Morgoth let issue his main host, which he had kept in waiting, and Fingon was beaten back with great loss from the walls.

        "So it was on the fourth day of that war upon the plains of Anfauglith began Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Unnumbered Tears, for no song or tale can contain all its grief.  As the host of Fingon retreated over the sands, Haldir lord of the Haladin was slain in the rearguard, and with him most of the men of Brethil.  There was hope for a time on the morning of the sixth day when Turgon marched up with the main host of Gondolin, for he had restrained most of his people from the rash onslaught.  

"In the third hour of that morning, the trumpets of Maedhros were heard at last from the east.  Some have said even then the Eldar might have won that day, had all their hosts proved faithful; for the Orcs wavered and some turned to flight.  But even as the vanguard of Maedhros came upon the Orcs, Morgoth loosed his last strength.  Wolves, Balrogs, and dragons issued forth from Angband and came between the hosts of Fingon and Maedhros and swept them apart.

"Yet neither by Balrog or dragon would Morgoth have achieved his end, but for the treachery of Men.  In this hour the plot of Ulfang was revealed.  Many of the Easterlings turned and fled, their hearts being filled with lies and fear; but the sons of Ulfang went over suddenly to Morgoth and drove in upon the rear of the sons of Fëanor, and in the confusion that they wrought they came near to the standard of Maedhros.  They reaped not the reward that Morgoth promised them, for Maglor slew Uldor the accursed, and the leader in treason, and the sons of Bòr slew Ulfast and Ulwarth ere they themselves were slain.  But new strength of evil Men came up that Uldor had summoned and kept hidden in the eastern hills, and the host of Maedhros was assailed now on three sides, and it broke and was scattered.

"Though fate saved the sons of Fëanor, and though the Naugrim won great renown that day, the battle was lost.  Fingon, High King of the Elves, was cruelly slain by Gothmog Lord of Balrogs.  Huor was killed by an arrow to his eye, and his brother Hùrin taken captive.  Hundreds more of the Eldar and valiant Men were slaughtered besides.

"Great was the triumph of Morgoth, and his design was accomplished in a manner after his own heart; for Men took the lives of Men, and betrayed the Eldar, and fear and hatred was aroused among those that should have been united against him.  From that day the hearts of the Elves were estranged from Men, save only those of the Three Houses of the Edain."

For a while Lasca was silent, realizing what she had just heard.  "We are descended from those Easterling Men, are we not?" she asked quietly.

"Indeed," Pallando sighed.  "And that is much of the reason why your people are estranged from those of the North, and from the Elves.  Both are slow to forget dreadful deeds, however many ages have gone by."

Lasca stood up and left without a word, her heart greatly troubled with her newfound knowledge.  She said nothing to anyone for the rest of the day, save when night came, and she made her way to the tribe leader's tent.  The two guards swiftly stepped aside and admitted her in.  As she went through the flap, the heat and stuffiness of the room swept over her, for there were many lit candles and lamps spread about, giving the atmosphere an eerie red glow.  The thick smell of incense pervaded the air.

"What troubles you, young caretaker?"

Lasca jumped, startled by the leader sitting shrouded in a dark corner of the tent.  She could barely see him, save for where the light shone on his eyes.  Slowly she knelt down on a rug in front of him.

"I, I beg your pardon sir, but there is..... there is something I must know."

"What old wives' tales has that fool been telling you?"

Lasca did not question how he seemed to know her mind.  Quickly she related to him what Pallando had told her earlier that day.  "And sir, I want to know…is it true we are descended from those Men?"

He said nothing for a very long time.  Lasca could feel herself become drowsy with the heat and intoxicating smell.  Beads of sweat fell from her forehead.  Finally he spoke in a harsh whisper.

"Yes, what he says is true," he hissed.  "Our forebears have ever sided with the Darkness, for we have found no hope in Light.  Indeed, the Light is our enemy.  Does not the cruel Sun scorch our already withered land day after day, year after year, age upon age?  It is only in night that we feel relief from the sweltering heat; only in the Dark.  And what of the Nùmenoreans?  Mighty and noble?" he spat with disgust.  "For countless years we suffered under their rule and were treated no better than beasts.  They give us no reason to trust them now.  No, it is only Sauron who has offered what we want—and need—so badly."

"You are proud, then?  Proud of being spineless, of being treacherous?" Lasca spoke in a low voice, staring down at her clenched fists.  "Indeed, I have not yet learned all the ways of the world as you know it, and maybe I am too naïve to judge, but I am ashamed of my heritage."

"Naïve indeed!  What do you hold dearer?  Honor or survival?  Would you rather die proudly or hang on to precious life in the shadows?  That wizened old man has turned your mind!"

"No, he has not.  I still have doubts of what he says, though you yourself say that he is truthful."

"And what of it?  Living life, however spineless, has ever beat chasing after petty ideals of what is good and just.  That is the way of the Haradrim: to live and survive and further our people.  You need to believe that, for you are nearing womanhood, and a woman's duty is to bear children, not to set right a wrong done beyond what living memory can recall."

Lasca looked up suddenly, the flickering flames of the candles dancing in her dark eyes.  "I do not believe that."  

She left without another word.

+

Okay, I did take Pallando's tale from the Silmarillion.  Some of it is paraphrased, though I got lazy at some parts and just took directly from it ^^; Here are the pages (in the hardcover 1977 edition): 188-195.  Again I don't own any of Tolkien's works, they belong to the Tolkien estate, etc.


	6. Flight

Chapter 5 

**Flight**

Lasca could barely sleep that night, for her heart burned hot within her.  The tribe leader's words had been circling in her thoughts.  Perhaps if she was older her heart would have been as hard as his, but as it was she was only fifteen years of age, and in many ways she still viewed much from her own perspective.  The only glimpses of the world outside had been through the tales of Pallando, and she had grown to trust him.  However, she also felt love for her family and others she had grown up with.  A battle of morals was raging inside of her, for she did not know who to give her loyalty to: kinsmen or the hard truths Pallando had told her.  She finally fell into an uneasy sleep.

A while later she was woken by a commotion outside.  Groggily she stood up and pushed through the tent flap.  She saw the light of torches across the camp, and a she felt a twinge of fear, realizing it was where Pallando lived.  Quietly she crept closer to the crowd, and heard angry shouts and low murmurings.  She soon stood at the fringes of the mob, but couldn't make out what was happening.  A tent stood at the edge of the crowd, and creeping around it, what she saw tore a gasp from her throat.

Pallando stood outside his tent, facing off with the tribe leader and several guards.  Glittering in the hands of the leader was a naked blade.  Pallando had heard Lasca, but the others were to intent on him to notice.  _Whatever happens, child, do not reveal yourself, _Lasca heard his voice speak in her head.  She clutched nervously at the tent, but made no move.  She heard the leader talking.  He was accusing Pallando of corrupting Lasca's mind with dark lies and half-truths.

"You know as well as I do that the Nirnaeth was no lie!" he spoke threateningly.  It seemed to Lasca that he drew himself up imposingly, and a hush fell on the crowd.  A sudden power seemed to radiate from him.

"Do not threaten me, wizard!  I know you lost your power long ago!" the leader nearly shrieked, eyes widening madly.

"The true power of a Maia cannot be lost, you foolish coward," Pallando whispered, though his words seemed to penetrate the minds of all there, save the raging leader.

"The Gods of the West could not overthrow even Morgoth, their very kin, so do not try to scare me, you wizened fool!  Night shall ever follow day!"

"And morn on the heels of night!" thundered Pallando, and it seemed as his words were uttered, the eastern sky lit with the triumph of dawn.  Cries of fear and wonder erupted, and all fled cowering back to their tents, save one.

A look of amazement on her face, Lasca slowly walked up to Pallando.  His once dusty robes were now darkest blue, and his once-gray hair was as black as night. He looked at her and smiled.  She gasped, for his face was now fair and cleanshaven.  However, his blue eyes still twinkled and the wisdom of the ages had not left him.

"You see my true form at last," he said.  "For indeed I am of the Maiar, a race little less than the Valar."

Lasca, not knowing what else to do, made to bow low, but Pallando laughed.  "Nay, young Lasca, do not humble yourself before me, for it was I who was sent to serve the children of Men." Lasca looked up questioningly.  "The Valar sent I and four others to Middle Earth many centuries ago to guide Men to the path of righteousness, though for me it has been a long and fruitless task."

"That is why you wanted me to listen to you.  You were trying to help me?" Lasca asked.

"Yes, and of all those I have spoken to, you alone have truly taken my words to heart, however hard they were to hear."

"I did not want to believe you.  I did not want to believe my forebears were so craven and weak," Lasca said, voice trembling.  Pallando's eyes softened.

"Do not fear, for there is always hope.  Lost honor may be reclaimed."

"How could you stand saving my father, then, for he is fighting under a Dark Lord!"

"Young one, you must understand: I did not cast a protection spell as you were imagining, for I gave up my magic abilities long ago.  No, with the words you received from me, you shall save him in the end." Lasca stood in shock at his words.

"I, I don't understand," Lasca stuttered.  "How could I save him?"

"You will know in time," Pallando said while gazing out towards the West.  From the shadow in the East he could feel a piercing gaze seeking him out.  It had felt him as he revealed himself.  "Now I must leave, for Sauron feels my presence."

"Leave?  Where?" Lasca asked, pleading in her eyes.

"To the West," he said simply.  "For my task is completed." Lasca stood for a moment, then bowed her head, understanding what he meant.  Unknowingly tears had begun to well up in her eyes, and she furiously began wiping them away.  In the short time she had known Pallando, she had become fond of him, for all his quirks and orneriness.  A strong arm came behind her back and drew her into his embrace, and she let her tears fall.  "I do not think I shall see you again, for I do not know where Men pass on to," he whispered, "though I should like to give you a gift, before we part."  Drawing away from her, he put a hand atop her dark head, and suddenly Lasca felt something pouring into her mind.  "I give you the gift of Westron, the tongue of the North.  May you use it well, for it is the last of my magic."

  Taking another step back, he closed his eyes, and his figure began to glow with the mingled light of silver and gold.  Slowly it faded, until it disappeared, and nothing was left in the shadow of the tent.  Lasca wasted no time in getting back to her tent, and found her mother standing outside.  Feeling as if she would burst if she did not talk, she poured her heart out to her, and all the events of the night before and that morning.  Her mother was shocked to hear what Pallando had told her, though she had heard whispers of a similar tale whispered among the men.  She had not wanted believed it, however, for she was loath to concede her people were truly evil.  

"…and I do not know what I should do!" Lasca finished.  Her mother gazed at her for a long while.

"Daughter," said she quietly, "I cannot choose for you, for much of what you said I still do not understand.  You must decide yourself.  What do you wish to do?" Lasca said nothing.

"…I wish to reclaim our dignity, for I do not think I could bear myself if I did not, though I know not how." She sighed.  "I also do not understand how I am to save father."

"…Go to the North, Lasca." Said her mother finally, though there was a strain in her voice.  "I do not know much of the world, though I do know honor cannot be found here.  Though I should beg you to stay for love of you, I know that to reclaim honor for the Haradrim, you must face the North." She bowed her head.  "I also fear that our tribe shall cast you out for your dealings with the wizard.  For your sake you must also flee."

Lasca gazed at her, stunned at the bold words her mother had spoken.  She thought about leaving her home and everything she had known, and suddenly felt small and fearful.

"Yes, you are right… though when it comes to it… I am afraid to leave." She paused, biting her lip, when suddenly an image of her smiling father flashed in her mind.  "…Nonetheless, I shall go, if just to see father again." Looking up, she saw her mother smiling through her tears.

"Yes, my brave Lasca.  Go and reclaim what was lost.  Make haste, for you should leave before all are awake." With that she hurried into the tent.  

Though still unsure of herself, Lasca hurried over to where the tribe's horses were picketed, now few, for many of them had been ridden off to war.  They were small and fleet, as were all horses of the desert.  Lasca had ridden many times in her childhood, though less as she came of age, for chores took up much of her time.  She walked slowly over to her family's mare, Malak, a clear bay (1).  Men of the desert almost always preferred mares to stallions when riding, for they were calmer and more manageable.  Malak was no exception.  She stood still as Lasca unhitched her and led her by her headstall back to the tent.  Despite her misgivings at Lasca's sudden departure, her mother had been quick to pack food and water skins into saddlebags.  

Lasca changed from her light robe into shalwar (2) and a peasant blouse usually worn at celebrations, but they would be easier to ride in.  She saddled and bridled Makar, and was ready to depart.  She stood beside the mare, wearing a cloak over her clothes to ward off the sun.  Giving her mother one last embrace, she mounted and slowly jogged off northeast towards the Harad Road.  She did not yet know how she would reclaim respect for her kin or save her father.  The immense task she had given herself cast a shadow of doubt on her heart as she skimmed the desert sands.

+

(1) A bay is a brown horse with black mane tail, lower legs, and muzzle.  A clear bay is generally lighter brown (almost gold in some cases).  I'm basing Malak's appearance on Sham's in Marguerite Henry's King of the Wind, a book about the Godolphin Arabian, one of the founding sires of today's thoroughbred racing horses.  I still love horses today, but when I was younger I was hopelessly crazy over them ^^

(2) Shalwar are harem pants (pants with really wide legs, usually low-fitting)

Well, Lasca's officially off and running.  I hope it didn't take too long for you ^^; (Sorry, I stress over pacing.  Pacing is a beautiful thing, as are commas and Spellcheck) The next two chapters will probably come in the next couple days, but after that it will be slower, especially this week with finals and midterms (curse them).  I also have to read the whole pre-AP English summer reading list in one week…moving to a new state is such a pain in the butt…


	7. Stranger

**Chapter 6**

**Stranger**

That night, as she sat in the cover of a rogue rock outcropping, Lasca remembered Pallando's gift: Westron.  Tentatively she started talking softly, wondering how in Middle Earth she was supposed to be able to automatically speak a language she had known not a word of the day before.  

At first she spoke random thoughts, telling herself that she hoped bandits wouldn't find her; that she hoped her water lasted.  She went on for some time, finally giving up frustratedly, for she was growing drowsy.  As she lay down, wrapped in her cloak, thoughts of the night before and that morning were streaming through her head.  Suddenly she seemed to hit a mental block.  Uncertainly, she prodded it with her mind.  Slowly it began to dissolve, releasing streams of knowledge that flowed in a torrent.  At first she was scared, and tried to block the sudden rush of too much information.  Eventually, her mental strength weakened, and she let smaller streams pour into her mind.  

That morning her head had felt sore and swollen.  Groaning she sat up, shading her eyes from the glaring sun peeking over the horizon.  Cautiously she looked into her mind, remembering last night.  It seemed to her that the flood of knowledge had calmed, and all that remained was a deep pool, unknown and mysterious.  Slowly she reached for it, and began to speak once more.  At first it came out as her native language, but as her consciousness dipped into the deep pool, foreign words began to emerge from her lips.  Startled, she stopped talking.  The new language seemed choppier than the tongue of her homeland that flowed like the desert sand.  She spoke once more, now recalling a tale Pallando had told her, and dipped into the pool.  Again she spoke that tongue, marveling that she understood it, though many of the sounds were strange on her lips, and she struggled to speak them.  After a light meal of dates and water that she shared with Malak, she prepared to set out on her course once more, all the time speaking Westron to herself, fascinated by her new knowledge.

That evening, she came in sight of the Harad Road.  A sense of relief swept over her.  Riding out alone on the formless desert with nothing but the distant sun to guide her made her uneasy.  She slowed Malak down to an easy walk as they went up the road.  The sun was sinking in the West, and Lasca was anxious to find any sort of cover.  Just as night came, she saw a small oasis along the path.  Eagerly Malak pulled towards it, and Lasca gave the mare her head.  

Later on Lasca rested, sitting under a palm tree, Malak tethered nearby.  Suddenly the mare pricked her delicate ears and snorted, gazing across the water hole.  Lasca sat up as well, wondering what Malak had sensed.  As she stared across the water, she picked up movement among the few trees.  Dearly wishing she had a weapon of some kind (she had only remembered when she was far away from the camp), she slowly edged closer to Malak and stood up behind her, taking her head and soothing the nervous horse.  "Who's there?" she called warily, shaking with nerves.  Slowly a figure stepped out from behind a tree.

Though some yards away, Lasca could make him out fairly well in the moonlight.  He was little taller than her, and wore a long red overcoat, tattered white shirt, and loose white pants that were torn at the knee.  He also seemed to wear a white headdress.  Malak, startled, snorted and twisted her head, trying to get away.  Lasca struggled to hold her.  "Wh-who are you?" she asked.

"And why would I tell you?" the figure answered.

"How long have you been watching me?"

"Since you arrived."

"Why did you not reveal yourself before now?"

"How was I to trust you?"

At this Lasca paused before answering: "If you do not harm me tonight, I shall not harm you," she stated, praying that he didn't know she was unarmed.  He chuckled at her proposal.  His laugh sounded like a bark, and it sent shivers down Lasca's spine.

"A deal, eh?  Very well." With that he sat down at the foot of the nearest tree, and seemed to fall asleep immediately.

Warily Lasca lay down near the now calm Malak, willing herself to wake before the man did, for her pact only lasted the night.

The early morning did find Lasca awake, though she did not leave immediately.  Curiosity had again overcome her as she saw that the man was still sleeping, snoring quietly to her amusement.  She crept silently over to get a better look at him, and gasped: he wore no headdress.  His hair was pure white, messily cut around his head.  Long bangs fell over his eyes.  Amazingly his tanned face was not that of an aged man—it was that of a teenage boy barely into manhood.  As Lasca sat gaping at him, he woke, slowly opened his eyes, and saw her staring at him.  With a yell of surprise he scrambled away from her.  "What are you doing?!" he asked incredulously, gasping for breath after his scare.

"Er, I am sorry.  I just couldn't help but notice your hair is white, but you are still young—" 

"How observant," he snorted in annoyance, standing up.  "You've only just pointed out what everyone that has seen me knows!" She glared at him, not appreciating his sarcasm.  "You're just like the bloody rest of them!" he went on, flinging his arm in a general direction.

"Do you say this to everyone you meet?" she questioned, annoyance in her voice.

"I'm not one for waking early," he replied, and then sighed.  "I suppose I should apologize…but I don't think I shall."

Lasca gaped at him.  "I think you do owe me an apology!  What kind of a person are you?"

"Not before you apologize for being a nosy little girl," he went on, a grin tugging on the corner of his mouth.

"Not in ten ages, you dolt," she stated icily.  He laughed.

"Well then, I suppose we agree then."

"Agree to what?"

"Agree to not apologize and be pompous fools, of course," he stated matter-of-factly, now with a grin spread across his face.  Lasca thought for a second, and started giggling.  "I said you were a little girl, and now you prove my point, giggling like that," he said.  She stopped abruptly, glaring at him again.  

"You are insufferable."

"As are you.  What is an insufferable little girl like you doing out here anyway?" Lasca was about to reply scathingly, but then got a better idea.  She rambled on about everything that had happened up to then.  _Let him think me crazy.  Then perhaps he'll leave me be!_

To her surprise (and horror) he seemed to believe her completely, asking questions and nodding sagely.  He was silent as she finished, dark eyes deep in thought.  She asked what he was thinking.

"For one thing, I am amazed to find someone else who knows the true stories, and who believes them," he paused.  "Your mother was right: there is no longer any honor to be found in Harad.  I have long known that sad truth."

"Why are you here?" Lasca asked, curious.  His troubled look was once again replaced by a wily smile.

"I am a wanderer of the world, my dear, er—"

"My name is Lasca.  Yours?" He paused, and for a second looked serious.

"…Call me Khalil."

"Are you saying that isn't your real name?"

"Perhaps.  Though for now that is enough.  Farther down the road you may learn more of me, if we survive."

"Uh, 'we'?" 

"A fair maiden such as yourself should not travel unaccompanied on such a noble quest!"

"…You're mocking me."

"Of course."

"And I suppose you are the strong and handsome warrior?"

He grinned.  "You're learning."

A resounding slap was heard in the stillness of the desert morning.

+

I hope the Westron thing made sense ^^; I thought it would be really cliché if she could just automatically speak it perfectly (without having to try very hard).  And yes, yet another OC.  If you know what I'm talking about, base Khalil's looks on tomb-robber Bakura.  Sorry to everyone out there who wants to see more canon characters, but Lasca and Khalil have to get out of Harad first, and if I decide to kill them off in the middle of the desert…heh, don't worry, I'm not planning on it.  Hmmm, come to think of it, though, that might be an original twist…~_^

Also, if it isn't too much trouble, could you check out my oneshot fic?  Since I don't update it, it doesn't get reviews, and I would really like to know what people think of it.  Check under my bio.  Thanks!

Ainu Laire- Heh, don't worry, I don't think I shall.  I'm so glad you like them so much!  Writing OC characters can be nerve-wracking, especially trying to not make them self-inserts or Mary Sues.


	8. Comrade

**Chapter 7**

**Comrade**

"So, how do you plan on reclaiming the Haradrim's honor?"

        "Er, I am not sure yet."

        "You _aren't sure_?" Khalil stared at Lasca incredulously as they shared a morning meal of their combined supplies.  Lasca shifted uncomfortably.  

        "Well, I know I must do it—"

        "Do you know anything of the world?  The wise and great are not going to pardon a nation that they consider a bunch of bloodthirsty scoundrels because some girl politely _asked _them to!"

"Well, do you have any ideas?" Lasca countered.

"Ah, no, but that's besides the point—"

"Well then, why do you insist on joining me?"

Khalil lowered his gaze.  "Though I think it impossible, I too long to be respected.  The burden of our ancestors should not be ours to bear."

"We shall be no better than them if we do nothing!" Lasca huffed as she got up and began packing.  Khalil watched her, chewing on his date.  Feeling his gaze, she glanced back at him.  "Well, what are you sitting there for?  Fill the water skins!" He glared at her.

"Who are you to be ordering me around?"

She stopped and looked at him, a slight smile playing on her lips. "Do you wish to die of thirst?" He was about to reply, then stopped. Grabbing the water skins with a growl, he muttered something about overbearing women.  Within the hour they were heading up the road, Lasca riding and Khalil walking beside her.  She looked down at him.  "You said you were a 'wanderer of the world'?"

"Yes.  I've been to all parts of Middle Earth.  Well, save the far North."

"Why?  Don't you have a home?"

He paused, gazing off into the distance.  "When I was younger, I lived with my family.  We lived along this very road, though farther south.  We did not move around, for the oasis we lived in was large and other tribes rarely found it.  Nearly every day a traveler would come up the road, or down it, and would stay with us.  I listened to their tales, and was always fascinated with stories of distant places.  The rest of my family was content to just listen, but I wanted to see the wide world for myself.  One night, several years ago, I packed a few belongings and left."

"You left your family?  Just like that?"

"I do not know how to explain it, but my longing for travel, for discovery, was so strong that I had to leave or I would have gone mad," he replied with a sad, strange smile.  "Yes, there were times when I missed my family, though that only happened if I stayed in one place too long.  Once I had begun to journey again, my thoughts would only be of the road ahead." Lasca said nothing.  "Do you think me strange, Lasca?  Do you think me heartless to abandon my family and those that loved me for the thrill of adventure?" he asked, his sad smile unnerving her.

"I—I know not what to make of you," she answered finally.  He laughed and was silent.  Indeed she did not know what to think.  Her departure had been reluctant and filled with fear and sadness.  She did not understand how he could have easily left his home and everything he knew.  Glancing down at him, she thought that perhaps agreeing to let him accompany her had been a rather rushed decision.

The afternoon found them wordlessly eating as the desert sun glared down on them.  An awkward silence had fallen between the two ever since their strange conversation that morning.  As they set out, Khalil looked back the way they had come.  In the shimmering heat he thought he could make out some figures moving towards them.  He said nothing to Lasca as they continued northward.

As the afternoon wore on into evening, Khalil continued to glance back at the ever-nearing Men.  They had gotten close enough that he could make out their ragged, dark robes.  "Lasca, do not look back, but I believe we are being pursued," he muttered under his breath without turning his head.

"Pursued?" she repeated, feeling a sudden chill sweep over her, despite the heat.  "Bandits?" she whispered fearfully.

"Perhaps."

"Then get on!  We must outrun them!"

"Outrun them to where?  No, for the time being do not make it seem as though we are aware of them.  You must trust me."

Lasca did not know if she should.  What was preventing him from abandoning her like he did his own kin?  She tried to remind herself that he knew far more of the world than she did.

As the sun sank in the West, their pursuers had gained on them.  Lasca could hear them, jeering and calling to them.  Her instincts screamed to kick Malak into a full gallop, and it took all her self-discipline to resist.  Keeping her eyes trained on the road in front, she thought she spotted a strange break in the sand.  "Khalil, what is that ahead?"

"It is the River Harnen, and if I am right, it will be our key to escape."

"_If_ you are right?"

"If the Valar are with us, I am.  They should be, what with our honorable cause." He looked up at her and grinned slightly.  She felt far too nervous to return his smile.  Soon the river was clearly seen, and surprisingly it was quite swift and deep, fed by the snows of the Ephel Dûath.  The bandits were barely thirty yards behind them when Khalil mounted behind Lasca.  A shout went up from the men and they began to run.  Khalil shouted for Lasca to gallop, but she needed no urging.  With one swift kick Malak was flying, eating up the ground with the easy stride of desert horses.  Lasca stood up in the stirrups and hunched over the mare's neck, Khalil's arms tightly around her waist.  The river was fast approaching.  As they pounded up the road, Lasca thought she saw a bridge, but soon it was apparent that it was only the charred remains of one.  Khalil gave a joyful shout.  "Yes!  The bridge is gone!"

"What good does that do us?  We cannot cross it!"

"A horse may be able to swim it."

Malak balked as they came upon the Harnen, refusing to cross.  The bandits were coming upon them swiftly.  Desperate, Khalil dismounted and grabbed the horse's bridle, talking softly and leading her into the water.  As they came upon the middle of the river, the water became too deep and with a lurch Malak began to swim for her life, the strong current threatening to sweep her away.  The sudden jolt had loosed Khalil's hold on her bridle.  Desperately he tried to grab onto the mare, but the water had made her too slick.  For a second he feared he would be pulled under, but suddenly felt a small hand grasp his wrist.  Looking up he saw Lasca with a strained face trying to call out to him, but he could not hear her over the river.  He reached up with his other hand, and she took it, and with the last reserve of her strength pulled him over Malak's whithers.  After what seemed an eternity of swirling eddies and the mare's grunts of exertion, the two found themselves on the other side of the Harnen soaking wet.  Feeling as though her arms had been wrenched from their sockets, Lasca collapsed onto the shore, which thankfully was grassy near the river.  Shouts were coming from the defeated bandits, but she chose to ignore them.  Khalil collapsed with a groan on the ground beside her.

"I take it you were hoping the bridge was gone?"

"I told you the Valar were with us."

"Some plan.  You do realize we nearly drowned?"

"Would you rather have this or the bandits?"

"After having to haul your dead weight out of the water and losing feeling in my arms in the process, it's hard to say." 

He fixed her with a glare.  "The point is we are not captured by bandits, not that you are a scrawny little girl."

She matched his glower with her own.  "From now on I make the decisions.  Perhaps then we shall come out of this alive."

"Or not.  Suit yourself, though.  May I remind you that I may leave at any time." With that he sprawled out on the ground to sleep.  Giving him a last glare, Lasca proceeded to untack Malak before lying down herself.  She had found that even though Khalil could be very infuriating, traveling with another person was in many ways better than traveling alone, though as she looked at his sleeping form, she wondered how long it would be until she was.

+

Well, not much to say except I wrote this from 11:00 PM to 12:30 AM, so I'm sorry if I messed up at all ^^;  

Queenieb- Yes, they have quite the task ahead of them!


	9. Resolve

**Chapter 8**

**Resolve**

**A/N:** dialogue in brackets [] is spoken in Westron.

Lasca woke that morning to the sound of rushing water.  Confused, she sat up and looked around.  As she took in her surroundings, the events of the night before came rushing back.  She stood up and stretched, arms still sore.  Lying on the other side of a peacefully grazing Malak was Khalil still fast asleep.  Irritably she walked over and kicked him a couple times before he woke with a start.  "'Ey! Whawhudatfurr…?" he muttered incoherently as he sat up, rubbing his side.

"Get up!  We should leave before another bunch of thieves finds us.  Here," she tossed a couple dates to him.

"Do we have anything besides dates?" he wrinkled his nose at the now staple food. 

"'We?'  No, I think it's still 'you and I,'" she snapped as she bridled Malak.  Khalil was startled by her outburst.

"What brought this on?"

Lasca stopped fumbling with the straps and turned to him.  "How long until you leave?  How should I trust you, when you left your own family?"

"Ah, so that's it," he sighed.  "Listen, I promise I won't go off on my own, on one condition."

"What's that?"

"I ride Malak too.  My feet are quite sore," he answered, a grin on his face.  Lasca forced herself to smile back before turning around.  

Lasca finally broke the awkward silence as they rode northward through wasteland.  There was only rock outcroppings and sparse brush as far as the eye could see. "Where exactly are we, anyway?"

"We are in the far south of the realm of Gondor."

"You mean we are in foreign land?"

"Yes.  The River Harnen is Harad's northern border.  We best keep watch for armed companies, both Sauron's and Northern Men."

"I supposed neither would welcome us."

"Precisely."

Silence, save the dull pounding of Malak's hooves.

"…Have you ever been to northern Gondor?"

"Yes, though quite a while back.  I have been to their capital city, Minas Tirith.  We will want to head there, for that is where the main seat of power of Men is."

"Who is the king?"

"The last of the Kings of Men perished long ago.  Now only the Steward is left."

"I suppose we must go to him, then."

Khalil snorted.  "Your blind optimism is amusing.  I have seen the Steward before.  He is a venerable old man, and bitter.  He will not listen to us."

Lasca was becoming frustrated.  "Then what shall we do?"

"Sauron means to destroy the world of Men.  He will strike the White City first.  If there is a remaining heir to the throne, he shall reveal himself there.  That is where we may also find your father."

Lasca started.  She had nearly forgotten her other mission.  "Yes…we will go to Minas Tirith."

Khalil paused.  "You said something about being able to speak Westron.  Is that true?"

"Yes; Pallando bestowed it upon me.  Listen." Concentrating on the pool in her mind, slowly she began to speak. "[Therefore I say: _Eä!  _Let these things Be!  And I will send forth into the Void the Flame Imperishable…]" she stopped.  "Well, that's as far as I can remember."

Behind her Khalil slowly clapped.  "Not bad at all. You just need to work on your accent."

"You know Westron?"

"Quite a bit.  You need to, in order to haggle with merchants up at Pelargir.  The first phrase I learned was 'That is a rip-off, you son-of-bitch.'" For the first time in a long while, Lasca laughed feely.

"Perhaps that phrase would be useful when talking to the Steward." 

Khalil chuckled.  "If you want to be thrown in a dungeon, of course.  But in all honesty, what are you planning to do?"

Lasca set her face.  "The only thing I can do: beg for pardon."

"Pardon for what?"

"The Nirnaeth."

Khalil's countenance was grave.  "It was called the Battle of Unnumbered Tears for no light reason.  The cowardice of Men is not forgotten."

"I know in my heart there is naught else I can do for my people.  If the Valar are with us, as you say, then there is still hope."

They went on up the road for several days, passing a couple caravans on the way.  From them they gathered news of Sauron's massing forces in the North.  The merchants said that it would only be a matter of time before Minas Tirith was under siege.  With this news they hurried onward, lest legions of orcs and evil Men bar their way into the White City.

On the fifth evening they sat in the cover of a particularly large scrub bush.  As they ate dried meat bartered from the merchants, an unearthly screech rent the air.  Malak began to whinny and scream in fear, eyes rolling in her skull.  Fiercely she wrenched out her picket stake and tore across the plain.  Neither Lasca nor Khalil made any move to stop her, for they were frozen in terror.  They dared not move.  Lasca's heart beat a frantic tattoo in her ear.  Her eyes were locked on the crescent moon in the sky.  The screech sounded again, this time accompanied with the far-off beat of powerful wings.  It seemed to Lasca that a shadow passed overhead, and as it blocked out the moon, dread and fear gripped her heart.  She longed to crawl into a hole and simply die, to leave the pain and terror behind.  

As soon as It came, however, It left, as did the dread It brought.  Lasca gasped for air, feeling as though she had been holding her breath for an eternity.  Beside her Khalil did the same, clutching his chest.  They looked at each other, fear reflecting in their wide eyes.  They did not speak for the remainder of the night.

That morning Malak returned unscathed, calm as ever and looking for breakfast.  The meal was silent, for It still crept in the back of their minds.  Only as the high noon sun shone down on them did they feel far enough beyond the dark to speak of It.  Khalil began.  "That thing last night…it…it was no earthly creature." He finished lamely.

"Do you have any idea what it was?"

"I have my guesses.  At any rate, it is a servant of the Dark Lord."

"I heard a sinister voice…it was saying my father was…he was slain.  And Harad was doomed.  Everyone was dead.  I saw a great battle in my mind…A great host, armor shining is the sun, was fighting against orcs and beasts of flame, against great wolves…but above the din all I could hear was derisive laughter, evil and cutting.  Suddenly I saw a hill…but it was not of earth…no…it was a hill of cruelly slain Men and Elves.  I—I could see their fair faces, contorted with pain and grief.  Some seemed to be whispering…cursing the treacherous Men so that they shall never be redeemed." She fell silent.

"I too saw something, though I have not the heart to speak of it."

"Do you think it foretells the future?" Lasca asked quietly.

"Nay; by no design can the Dark Lord see what is to come.  He can only show others what he wishes to befall them, so they shrink in fear and despair."

"How are you so sure?"

"You were not the only one to have met an Istari."

"You have seen Pallando?"

"No; I have met two others, and one I fear is dead, though the other highly unlikely." He replied, then stopped, seeming to have a revelation.  "Perhaps if we find him, he shall help us!" he laughed suddenly, as one who sees the new dawn.  "Lasca, there is hope yet!"

+

Sorry, I know it's short, but I really have to get studying!  R/R, please ^^

Ainu Laire- Since it is obvious, let me say that you are correct ^^ I'm glad you liked these two chapters!  To tell you the truth, I kinda wrote them not knowing what would happen (ex- "Hm, a Nazgûl would be cool…yeah, I think I'll do that!")  However, I do know what is going to happen at most key points, and basically how I want it to end.

BoromirDefender: Thanks for reviewing, and I do hope you'll stick around for more!  By the way, as a huge fan of both Faramir and Boromir, let me just say that I love your pen name.  Leggy-poo may have looks, but those two have a little something called personality ^^

Hioga-chan- Yeah, I'd say Khalil's about 17-18.  I'm using "several" as meaning at least more than four.  I'd say he left his family at 12, perhaps taking up with a passing traveler.  Sorry about all the generalizations ^^;

Jen Littlebottom- He's a sweetie?  Well, come to think of it, I guess he is ^^ I'm too caught up in making him non-self insert to notice ^^;

Tarock- Do you know about what year Gandalf was down there?  Unfortunately, I haven't gotten to read Unfinished Tales and I really want to, but I am reading the History of Middle Earth and have finished Lost Tales (both volumes), and I'm using an element from them for Khalil.  I'll give those out there who've read them a hint—what did Eriol/Aelfwine say he was "born under?"  It may explain a certain peculiarity…but if you know, please don't review with the answer!  E-mail me if you think you're right.  Also, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE don't worry about Lasca turning Mary Sue!  I hate them with a passion! 

Queenieb- Thanks!  I hate infrequent updates too ^^ I'll warn you now that chapters might come slower this week due to midterms (bleah) and other stupid school stuff.  About the other Istar…*devious look*…can't tell ya!  ~_^  
  



	10. Darkness

**Chapter 9**

**Darkness**

With two days of hard riding, Lasca and Khalil reached the crossings of the River Poros.  Lasca feared they were in for another life-or-death swim, but thankfully the ford was quite shallow.  However, another sight would be one she never forgot.

        As they had come nearer to the river, a stench swept over them that made the two humans wretch.  As they approached the ford, the reason for the smell made itself painfully clear.

        Strewn out across the banks and in the river itself were the carcasses of dead Men, orcs, and horses.  Some were all in one piece, but most had at least one extension hewed off.  Many were riddled with arrows.  Across the river seemed to be a sudden hill, but in truth was a fallen mùmak.  Over all cawed the crebain, ripping and pecking at the rotting flesh.  Lasca promptly dismounted and heaved up that morning's meal.  Khalil dismounted also, but simply stood, expressionless.  Then he began to walk among them, peering down at the fallen.  The crebain cawed angrily at his intrusion.  Lasca buried her face in Malak's mane, too shocked to cry.  "Some Gondorian rangers and soldiers were trying to keep the Haradrim from crossing.  I think the Haradrim were victorious," he finished quietly as the loud cawing once again prevailed.  Lasca heard the soft tread of his feet as he walked over to her.  He put a hand on her shoulder.  She turned around to face him, surprised when she saw tears shining in his eyes.  

"Lasca, you must look.  See the true face of war." She couldn't.  She couldn't bear to see the dead.  She shook her head fearfully.  Khalil's eyes narrowed.  He placed both hands on her shoulders.  "Look at me!" she glanced up into his fierce eyes.  "You must witness the pain felt by the Nirnaeth.  The pain caused by our kin.  Only then can you truly beg for pardon, or else you will be looked down on as a childish girl who knows nothing of war and strife.  Look." Forcibly he turned her around until she faced the battlefield.  "Look on a sight I have seen far too many times."

Gathering her courage, she began to walk among them, looking down at their faces.  She saw the countenances of her own people, covered with war paint.  She looked upon the pale faces of Gondorians far more often, however.  So, these were the usurpers, the dishonorable enemy.  They wore expressions of fear and pain, identical to those of the Haradrim.  The warriors had begun the war on opposing sides, though in the end, they both lay on the same ground with the same blood soaking into it.  As Lasca looked around, the only victors she could see were the carrion birds, feeding on the folly of Men.

Hearing the clink of metal, Lasca turned.  Khalil had scavenged two scimitars and was now washing them in the river.  She picked her way over to him.  He looked up as she approached.  "We best not go unarmed, for we are approaching the heart of all this," he said, motioning to the battlefield.  He handed one hilt-first to her.  She took it, nearly dropping it for its weight.  The leather bound grip felt awkward in her hand.  "You'll get used to it.  Er, by the way…this couldn't be your father's company, right?" he asked awkwardly.  Lasca's heart skipped a beat, but then she remembered.  "No, it couldn't be.  He left more than two weeks ago." Khalil sighed inwardly with relief.  "Good.  We best get going, before the crebain grow too irritated." He led the way back to the patiently waiting Malak.  Lasca followed, gaze straying to the faces of the slain.

The day passed with no other sign of battle.  Soon after they left the river, the road forked.  They took the left road, toward Pelargir.  Lasca noticed that the land seemed to slowly become more fertile, for the grass was slowly becoming greener.  The sight of green hills was strange to Lasca, though she decided they were more pleasant than bare hills of rock or sand.  That night they camped under one such knoll.  As Lasca lay back on the grass, she noticed the sky had become clouded, for she couldn't see the stars.  Dismissing it as the weather, she rolled over and slept.

When she first woke, Lasca thought it was still night, for she could not see the sun.  She looked to the sky, and again could not see the stars.  However, she did not think it was clouds.  The darkness was too complete and it gave her a wary feeling.  She shook Khalil awake.  "Is this weather normal?" she asked.  Khalil rubbed his eyes and looked skyward.  Suddenly he stood up and looked to the East.

"No, it is not.  This is no weather…no…this darkness comes from Mordor." He pointed to the dark mountains, which suddenly seemed much closer.  Lasca looked to them, and felt her wariness escalate into a gnawing fear.  "It is morning, though I fear we shall not see the sun for a long time, if the battle goes ill."

"Goes ill?"

"If Sauron triumphs, he will waste no time in covering all the lands with a far deeper gloom.  Come, we must make haste to the White City before our path is cut."

Hurriedly they gulped down some water and ate as they rode.  Lasca noticed that Malak felt tensed and nervous.  She patted her neck, for she felt the same way.  As the day wore on the darkness seemed to lessen, but the sun still could not be seen.  They knew she was setting as the gloom deepened around them.  Suddenly, from behind a high peak of the Ephel Dûath, Lasca thought she saw a red glow.  "That is the fire of Orodruin, Mount Doom," Khalil informed her.  She asked no more.

They heard the Great River before they saw it.  As evening settled, they came upon the Anduin.  Across it Lasca saw faint lights.

"Is there a town over there?"

"The port of Pelargir.  Go upriver a bit.  If I remember correctly, they have a ferry landing."

There was a landing on the river, but it seemed to be recently abandoned.  Thankfully, a raft was still hitched to one of the docks, large enough to carry a horse.  Slowly Lasca led an already uptight Malak onto it.  She nearly bolted as she felt it tip and sway under her, but Lasca talked to her and held her firm.  With a lot of patience, the two persuaded her to lie down on the logs.  As she buckled her legs under her, the ferry pitched violently, but remained afloat.  Khalil found two long poles near the boathouse and handed one to Lasca.  Slowly they punted across the wide river, shallower there, for it was nearing its delta.  At first sight it had seemed large, and now doubly so as they strained against its current.  Ahead the foul city of Pelargir lay. 

+

Well, I'm happy I managed to type one up today.  Midterms officially start tomorrow, curse them!  I might only be able to get one up in the next two days, but I'm sure you guys understand ^^  Thanks.


	11. Deepening

**Chapter 10**

**Deepening**

_Twelve-year-old Khalil gripped the old man's robe tightly.  "Let go, boy!  Holding on to me won't do the raft any good!"_

_        "Sorry, sir," he mumbled, embarrassed.  They were out in the middle of the river, bobbing on a small raft.  The punting man chuckled at the boy's nervousness.  _

_        "Do not fear.  The Anduin does not take lives willingly." Khalil looked at him.  His swart face seemed sinister.  He turned away._

_        "Yes, boy…do not fear the water," the old man murmured.  "Ulmo has ever helped those that dwell in these forsaken lands.  Do not forget all I have taught you." Khalil nodded, fixing his eyes on the port ahead.  He did not like the look of that either; shabby and dark.  _

_        It seemed to him he had been traveling with the old man for ages now.  Ever since he had met up with him on the Harad Road, they had journeyed together.  Khalil enjoyed his company, if only for the reason he did not ask the one question everyone had, but he had no answer for: why had he left his family?  The old man had only nodded knowingly at his account. Besides companionship, he had also told him tales of the Elder Days.  Khalil secretly thought he had lived in them, for he talked as though he had met all the great lords and kings.  He did not ask him though, far too caught up in the amazing stories.  His dreams were filled with heroes and heroines, Elves and Men of days gone by._

_        He was jerked out of his reverie as the raft hit the dock, signifying the end of the voyage.  Gratefully Khalil clambered off the raft and ran up the dock to the street.  He turned to call to the old man, but the words died in his throat.  Four brutish men were surrounding the old man on the dock.  Roughly two grabbed him and dragged him to land, knocking Khalil down on the way.  "_Hey_!  What are you doing with him?!  Let go!" the small boy grabbed onto on of their huge arms, tugging with all his feeble strength.  Laughing, the man shook him off._

_        "Stay back, waif, lest you want to be cursed by this wizard!" Shocked, Khalil looked at the old man._

_        "What does he mean?"_

_        "Khalil," he began quietly.  "In truth I am a wizard of sorts, though that means little now.  My knowledge of the ages has been passed on to you." The thugs kicked him and laughed, dragging him on again.  "Run, boy!  Run and do not look back, Son of Eärendil!"_

"_Alatar!_  Alatar_!!"_

        Khalil glared moodily out across the dark water that had served to rekindle equally dark memories.  That had been the last time he had seen Alatar.  He wandered the streets of the port town for days on end, begging food, and when that failed, stealing it.  One day, as he wandered the outskirts, he found a familiar robe trampled in the road.  He picked it up, and noticed something other than mud staining it: the rusty red of blood bloomed in large patches.  That night as he sat hunched in an alley, clutching the filthy cloth, his tears came.  Sobs wracked his small frame as the truth finally hit him: Alatar was dead.  He was his first real friend, and as the red sun rose that morning, he swore he would be his last.  

Fiercely he drove his pole into the riverbed, pushed, and then yanked it out.  He repeated the movement again, the anger of his memories driving him. A grunt of exertion behind him woke him from his thoughts.  He turned his head and saw Lasca punting on the other side of the raft with all her might, so that his stronger pushes would not drive them off course.  She had not complained to him.  He smiled slightly at her pride.__

He had traveled with her for nearly two weeks, he realized.  At first it had been because he was interested in her cause.  Later it was because he believed in it also, and thought, however small the chance, together they may achieve their end.  In a way he also felt like an elder brother, responsible for teaching her of the world and keeping her out of trouble.  She often counterbalanced his realism with her idealism.  As a rule he disliked positive people, perhaps because he himself felt nothing to cheerful about.  He had at first dismissed Lasca as childish for this quality, but slowly he was finding she was deeper than that.  Did he consider her a friend?  Time would tell.

Later that night they reached Pelargir.  Not even stopping to tie up the raft, Khalil swiftly led Malak to dry land, Lasca following.  He told Lasca to mount, and he sat behind her.  Talking as low as he could, he guided her through the grungy streets.  The air reeked with the stench of ripe fish.  Mysterious figures hobbled along in the shadows of the ramshackle buildings.  Occasionally pools of light would pour out on to the street from rowdy bars.  Lasca wove her mare around them, not wanting to be seen by the drunken occupants.  There was no sound in that town, save for the creaking of ships and bawdy singing from the alehouses.  They sung in Westron, though Lasca did not make the effort to understand the lyrics.  From one place Lasca heard shouts and cheers, and soon a scream.  She shuddered.

When Khalil told her to stop, she found herself on the outskirts of Pelargir, a few shabby huts dotting the rutted road.  Swiftly Khalil dismounted, and Lasca also.  She winced as her feet squished in the mud through her thin cloth shoes.   Silently he led them off the road.  He looked behind few houses and found what he was looking for when one of them had a small storage shed behind it.  Quickly he ushered Lasca and Malak inside.  He closed the door, wincing as its rusty hinges squeaked in protest.  It was pitch dark and stuffy in the small room, and the smell of rotted fish was so thick the two quickly grew nauseous.  Malak stamped nervously, but remained quiet.  "We'll be safe in here," Khalil stated, trying to sound confident, but failing miserably.

"How are you so sure?"  

"I've used this shed before.  It is more or less abandoned."

"What someone suddenly decides to use it?"

"That is what this is for," he replied, and Lasca heard a sharp tap on metal.  The scimitars.  Tentatively she unsheathed her own.  It was a short sword, the curved blade hardly as long as her forearm.  She ran her fingers down the flat of it, feeling the cool metal beneath her fingers.  From across the shed she heard the steady breathing of sleeping Khalil.  She leaned back against the weathered wooden boards and closed her eyes.  The scimitar lay in her lap, a hand draped over the leather-bound grip.

That morning, not the smallest reprieve from the darkness came.  Both felt their spirits fall even farther as they walked to the market, having need of more supplies.  Malak had been left in the shed, deemed strong enough to defend herself if need be.  As they approached the market at the harbor, Lasca thought there were large, spindly trees there as well, but as the docks came into view, she found they were the innumerable masts of black ships.  "It seems the Corsairs have claimed Pelargir.  Do not ask of them," Khalil murmured as they began their walk down the line of vendor's stalls.  Normally the market would be crowded and noisy, but the darkness seemed to weigh heavily on all, even those who were allied with Sauron.  As quickly as possible Lasca purchased water and dried meat, for there was no good fruit.  She bartered with a spare blouse she had brought.  Its bright color and foreign fabric was enough to purchase everything, but Lasca thought that its normally vibrant blue seemed faded and dull.  While thinking on this, she nearly slipped back into her native tongue, but hastily covered it up.  She had never spoken so much Westron at a time, and it put a strain on her mind.  

When their business was finished, they hastily made their way back to the shed.  To their dismay they found the bay mare outside, having evidently kicked the door down in her boredom.  A swart man passed by on the street, and stopped when he saw the delicate horse, eyeing her with greed.  Silently Khalil motioned Lasca to remain hidden behind the neighboring house.  He crept stealthily onto the road and behind the man.  With swift and practiced movement, he held the cold steel of his scimitar to the man's throat.  The man flinched, but dared not turn.  Lasca could not make out what Khalil told him, but it made him run off as if a mùmak was on his tail.  Khalil looked around for any more potential thieves before motioning for Lasca to come out.   They departed from Pelargir within the half hour, not bothering to look back at the shabby port as Malak pounded North towards Minas Tirith.  Later that day they felt a sudden chill wash over them, shaking them to the bone.  They saw to the west a host passing towards the Anduin.  Behind them seemed to go shadows.  They knew not why, but it filled them with foreboding.  Little did they know they looked on the Dead.

+

One thing that really bugged me about the ROTK movie was the absence of the other Dùnedain and Elrond's sons.  Is it really that hard?  And it also bothered me that the Dead went to Pelennor Fields. *shakes head*  Other than that, it was quite spiffy.  They cast everyone really well ^^ As a reminder, I'm following book-canon.  Thank goodness for timelines in Appendix B…

A/N: About Alatar being in the South—He had totally given up on the Easterlings, and was seeking Pallando out. 

Eryna Khan—I'm really sorry, but I don't speak French (though I really should, seeing as half my family lives there and I've been to France before…).  Still, I would like to encourage you to keep going on your fic.  There are far too few of us authors writing about the Haradrim!  Thanks very much for reviewing!

Tarock—Ack!  Thanks very, very much for pointing that out ^^;;;;


	12. Battlefield

**Chapter 11**

**Battlefield**

        Arien rose once again in the sky above Arda.  She looked down at the lands below her, and found the shadow that had covered them for five days was dispersed.  She rejoiced, and her bright rays shown down on the Pelennor; on the Rohirrim fell and wrathful in battle.  Glorious and dreadful would be the deeds of that day, she knew.

        The Haradrim marched onto the Pelennor, mùmakil bellowing and blood red standards flying in the wind.  Faraj was among them.  Ahead a white city gleamed in the new dawn, amidst a sea of Mordor's dark hosts.  Perhaps he would have felt awed at the sight, had not his gaze been cast at his feet.  He gripped his scimitar tighter, cold sweat pouring down his back.  He was afraid.

        Malak's pounding hooves matched Lasca's beating heart as the battle loomed ahead.  She felt as if she was in a waking dream.  Faintly she heard Khalil begging her to stop, but she paid no heed.

        For the past few days they had continued north.  At night as they camped in abandoned shacks and barns, they had taken turns at the watch, but neither got any sleep for nerves.  The day became an ever-increasing gauntlet of armed companies from both sides of the war.  The gravity of the situation became clearer with every arrow aimed their way.  If not for the speed and endurance of Malak, both would have been dead within a day.  

        The morn of the third day, however, brought hope, for the sun pierced through the darkness for the first time.  As the afternoon wore on, the Anduin River came upon the road, but suddenly cut off towards the east.  As they came around a high peak of the Ered Nimrais and crossed through a break in the crumbling Rammas Echor, Minas Tirith suddenly appeared to their left.  In front of them ranged hordes of orcs, though they seemed scattered and confused as footmen and cavalry of the North hacked at them.  Hastily Lasca turned Malak back towards the wall and started riding along its outer face.  Through gaps she could see farther out on the fields, and in the distance she spotted the massive forms of mùmakil, most of them lying slain.  A sudden panic came over her, and she spurred Malak into a gallop toward the huge beasts.  In her mind the face of her father swam.  Khalil's cries fell on deaf ears.

        She sped the mare through the carnage and battle, paying no heed to orc or Man.  Many turned, but the Valar were with them, and none hindered them.  

        As they neared the mùmak carcasses, Lasca halted Malak and dismounted quickly, stumbling as she hit the ground.  Khalil did likewise, and held the heavily blowing mare as Lasca frantically searched the fallen men.

        She had been at it for nearly an hour when she approached a man who had been shot with three arrows, blood pooling around him.  He lay face down.  Lasca rolled him over, no longer caring about the blood and gore, for her hands were covered with it.  His face, like all the others, was covered in war paint, though his was care lined and wore an expression of grief.  Lasca felt herself go numb.  With a trembling hand she took his wrist.  She felt nothing under the cold skin.  

        Khalil watched her, expecting her to stand up once more and move on to the next man, but she sat as if she were of stone.  He bowed his head for a moment before walking up to her.  Tentatively he put a hand on her shoulder, and she flinched, but did not move.  He felt a growing pity for her, this girl who had clung to hope when all seemed lost, and now found her hope betrayed.  Awkwardly he knelt beside her.  She turned towards him.  In her eyes were not tears, but a crazed, pleading look.  He was taken aback, and simply closed his eyes and bowed his head.  Suddenly a strangled sob tore from her throat.  The weight of all things fell on her, and she finally felt too weak, too heartbroken to bear it.  She curled up on the ground beside her fallen father and wept.  

        Khalil was distraught.  A battle of wills waged inside of him, but in the end his compassion won.  He went to her and put his arms around her, pulling her off the ground.  She made no move to resist, and sobbed into his shirt.  Though considerably overwhelmed, he knew nothing that he said would console her.  It seemed to him that he held her, gently rocking her as she cried, for an eternity.  He felt slightly uncomfortable, but in his heart understood the pain she felt.

        Malak's whinny snapped him out of his daze.  Awkwardly he stood up, Lasca now sitting on the ground.  He turned and saw several mounted men approach, dark-haired and dark-clothed.  On seeing that Khalil was a Southron, one raised his bow.  "[No!  Stay your bow,]" Khalil cried.  He unsheathed his scimitar and dropped it at his feet.  Lasca, now standing, did the same.  "[We come not for battle.]"

        "[Why then do you travel so far from your homeland, for you are Southron, are you not?]" The lead man questioned.

        "[We are, though I am also a friend to Olòrin, Gandalf the Gray.  I would have you take me to him,]" Khalil said.  The lead man laughed.

        "[I knew not that Gandalf had friends among Men such as you.  How is it that you know him?]"

        Khalil hesitated, then said: "[I doubt not he will recognize me.  Bring me to him, and you will see.]"

        The lead man regarded Khalil with a blank look.  "[And who is the girl?]"

        "[She is Lasca, the daughter of that man,]" he replied, gesturing to her fallen father.  Lasca said nothing.  The lead man nodded.  

        "[This war is not only cruel to us of the North, I see.  Very well, I shall take you to Gandalf, though you may find him…changed.]"

        Khalil was about to ask what he meant, but the Northern men began to ride off.  Hastily he took Malak's reins and turned to Lasca.  She was kneeling beside her father.  "Lasca, we must follow them."

        "Leave me here.  My father is dead," she whispered.

        "I shall do no such thing.  Come; there will be a time for mourning, but it is not now."  With one last longing glance she stood up and mounted Malak, Khalil behind her.  They rode off after the dark Men.   

+


	13. Olorin

*******A/N: A little revision made at the end of the last chapter!**

**Chapter 12**

**Olòrin**

"[Who are you?]"

        The leader of the dark men turned to see the Southrons riding beside him.  "[Watch what you say, boy.  You are no longer on your land.]" His face wore no expression.  "[For now, I will tell you I am Halbarad of the Rangers.]" 

        With that he urged his horse into a rolling canter, leaving the Haradrim to follow.  After a while, they approached the outer wall of Minas Tirith.  Despite its damage from the siege, the White City was majestic in the fading evening.  Not far from the wall were tents grouped together.  Halbarad bid they wait there while he questioned Gandalf's whereabouts.  Many men were walking among them and most looked at the passing Southrons, and none of their glances were friendly.  Khalil, wearied from the events of the day, dropped his gaze in submission.  Soon Halbarad returned.  "[Gandalf is busy right now in the City, tending to the wounded in the Houses of Healing.  You must wait here until he returns.]" He made to walk off.

        "[But sir, where shall we wait?  Certainly not sitting on our horse for hours.  Please, sir, is there a tent where my companion may rest?]"

        Halbarad turned back to look at them.  The girl certainly was exhausted; her head drooped and her eyes were red from crying.  He sighed.  "[Very well, follow me.]" Khalil dismounted and gently lowered Lasca off, supporting her for fear that she would collapse.  Leading Malak, he followed Halbarad.  Halbarad continuously questioned men and looked into tents, finally stopping in front of one.  He paused.  "[It seems all of our other tents are filled with the wounded.  You must stay in the King's tent— though I have misgivings.]" Wordlessly Khalil tied Malak's reins to the hitching post and followed Halbarad inside.  He barely noticed the rich furnishings, eyes dulled with tiredness.  He collapsed into a dark corner, and Lasca beside him.  Halbarad stepped out and told the guards about the two foreigners, informing them they were to see Gandalf, and not to let harm come to them.  "[However, keep a sharp eye on them, and if you have any suspicions, come to me,]" he said quietly before striding off.

        Later that evening Khalil woke to the low murmur of voices.  His blurry eyes met the warm orange glow of a lamp.  He rubbed them and sat up.  There was a small square table set in the tent, and several men stood around it looking at a map laid out on its surface.  One he recognized as Halbarad.  A man to his right resembled him strikingly, though Khalil felt an air of graceful authority about him, and his blue eyes glittered in his dark face.  

        The white-robed man across the table from Halbarad was peculiar.  His long hair and beard were pure white and his face and hands weathered with age, but the vivacity in his sharp eyes and movements suggested otherwise.  Khalil felt a spark of recognition in his muddled mind, and when the old man turned his piercing gaze on the flaxen-haired youth, he knew.

        "O—Olòrin!" Khalil gasped, stumbling to his feet.  Lasca, who had been leaning her head on his shoulder, snapped her eyes open at the sudden jerk.  She sat up and looked around at the crowd of men now staring at them.  She stood quickly, beads of nervous sweat appearing on her brow.

        The man Khalil addressed gave them an odd look.  "[Do I know you, boy?]"

        Khalil's face fell.  "[Don't you remember?  It was some years ago, and you were in Minas Tirith.]"

        The old man paused, and seemed to be groping for a memory.  Both Lasca and Khalil felt it was an eternity before he spoke  "[Yes, I was there some time ago, looking for old manuscripts…]" Khalil felt heartened.  He pressed on. 

        "[Do you remember?  Do you remember the little ragged boy, staring at the White Tree from the shadows of the stairway?  Looking at it as if it was…]"

        "[As if…as if it was the one thing in the world he had been searching for.]" The old man finished, gazing at Khalil in wonder.  "[Yes…yes I do remember you, Son of Eärendil.]" His face broke into a warm smile.  Many of the other men looked incredulous.  They began to murmur to each other.

        "[What do you mean, 'Son of Eärendil?!']" bellowed Halbarad.  "[Does this Southron waif share blood with our great ancestor, who now bears a silmaril and sails the firmament?]"

        "[I, too, wish to know the meaning of this, Gandalf]" said the other dark man softly, though his low growl carried more foreboding than Halbarad's outburst. 

        "[Calm yourself, Aragorn]" said Gandalf, waving a hand dismissively.  "[I do not literally mean he is a descendent of the Mariner.  Have you not heard the tale of those born under the light of his silmaril?]"

        The men paused.  A sudden look of surprise came over Aragorn's face.  "[You mean to say that Eärendil shown down on his birth?  Yes, I have heard the legend, though how are you to prove that this Harad boy was born under the star?]"

        "[After speaking with him, or should I say Khalil, all those years ago, he told me the most peculiar thing, especially for a boy no older than eleven or twelve: he could not be at ease without wandering.  Doe the legend not say that those chosen as a Son of Eärendil cannot rest in one place for long?  Indeed, his love of far off places drew him to this city, to the White Tree of Nùmenor itself.  For is it not also said that those blessed by his light share his love for his kin and the wonders they create?  Yes, this was enough to convince me, though there is one other peculiarity about this boy not given in any legend: his hair is stained purest white before his time, touched by the light of a silmaril.]"

        Lasca turned her head slowly to look at the boy standing beside her, and suddenly felt she hardly knew him, for now he seemed like the stuff of myths; untouchable, beyond her and the petty world to which she belonged.  Every man in the tent now gazed at him, some with respect, others with bewilderment.  Khalil himself did not know what to say.  He felt embarrassment, but more than that, he felt pride that he could stand with these great Men of the West and somehow be counted among them.  To his right he suddenly sensed the presence of the Southron girl cowering slightly at his side, and felt himself hurtling back to earth.

        "[Now, what brings you here, boy?]" Gandalf questioned.  Khalil closed his eyes, breathed a plea for courage, and raised his head once more.  After a quick glance at Lasca for reassurance, he spoke.

        "We come to beg pardon; for us, and all of Harad."

+

Well, hi.  No, I am not dead, though my absence of so-long-I-don't-want-to-think-about-it might suggest otherwise.  Hey, you did get a big revelation in this chapter, right?  I got the idea for Khalil's thing from _The Book of Lost Tales_, which basically shows Tolkien's first concepts of Middle Earth, and that legend was (a small) part of it.  I believe his character Ǽlfwine was a SoE.  If you are very hard-core, I suggest reading _Lost Tales_, but I warn you, Christopher Tolkien's commentary (of which nearly half the book is compiled) isn't exactly spellbinding ^^; I'll try to get a new chapter up sooner, but a few weeks ago I got a puppy (we're up to two dogs, two cats, and one beta fish now ^^), so needless to say she takes up a lot of time.  I swear, even though she's a toy breed (Papillion), I'm convinced she has warg blood in her.  The world is her chew toy!    


	14. Hope

**Chapter 13**

**Hope**

**A/N: Okay, the site's being evil and not showing my brackets, so Westron is in parenthesis ( ) now. **

As soon as the words escaped his lips, Khalil wanted to take them back. Why would they listen to him, a mere boy, especially now in the middle of a war that would decide the fate of Men?

Silence prevailed. As the boy and girl from Harad stood waiting for their doom, two identical figures stepped out from the shadows. They were tall and very fair, both with long dark hair, and gray eyes.

"(Do you know the weight of your request?)" Said one.

Lasca thought she was looking on Elves. She was awed, but a sudden courage seemed to swell inside her, having seen Khalil speak. "(We do, having heard the full tale of the Nirnaeth from the Blue Wizards. We are deeply grieved for what transpired; though we also know we cannot choose our heritage. This burden of guilt has long been ours, thrust on us by our ancestors who were cowardly and weak.)"

"(I see no change in either the Southrons or the Easterlings, who marched on us this very day, killing many of our brave men.)" Retorted Halbarad.

Lasca met his eyes. "(Then you have obviously not seen the barren desert we are forced to dwell in. No crops grow there, and the only sources of water and food are scattered in puny oases, hardly enough to feed the hundreds of tribes. I have not seen a year go by without wars and skirmishes. Sauron promised us the lands of the North, should we aid him.)"

"(To trust Sauron is folly,)" one man spit.

"(I do not doubt that,)" replied Khalil. "(However, the small chance that their families may have a better life led many men to aid him.)"

"(My own father went, and now lies slain on this field. In truth you were not fighting them. You were fighting Sauron through innocents tricked by pretty promises.)" Lasca began blinking furiously to keep back her tears.

"(She speaks truthfully. I see both Alatar and Pallando have not failed.)" Gandalf stepped over to Lasca. "(I commend you for coming this far on a quest you were hardly sure would succeed. However, as Khalil knows, now is not the time to discuss these matters; we still have not won this war. I would have you stay in the City for the time being, and shall escort you to my chambers. Come.)"

Khalil made to follow them, but Gandalf stopped him. "(Stay, boy, and listen.)"

The next morning, Lasca woke, finding herself in a rather comfortable bed, staring up at a white stone ceiling. She started, but then the whirlwind events of last night hit her. After stepping outside the tent, she had mounted Malak and Gandalf mounted a white stallion, the most magnificent she had ever seen. He told her this was Shadowfax, the Lord of the Horses. Lasca did not doubt his title.

As they rode in the darkness, she was thankful for the cloak someone had lent her. Soon they approached what looked like the remains of huge wooden doors. Guards halted them, but upon seeing Gandalf, hastily let them in. Even in the gloom, Lasca was awed by the sheer size of Minas Tirith. She had never been in any city before (the largest town she had seen had been Pelargir). She found that they were zigzagging up and up the different levels.

Finally they reached Gandalf's lodgings. After handing Malak off to a waiting stable boy, Gandalf led her into the house and up to the second level. Lasca found herself trailing behind Gandalf not for weariness, but because she wanted to look at everything in the strange dwelling. When they reached her room, Gandalf sat down with her and asked about their journey. She began when Pallando came to their village. When Lasca finally came to that night, she felt as if she had been talking for hours. Gandalf had not interrupted her. She had asked him what was going to happen, but he told her to sleep and it would be discussed in the morning.

"You awake?" questioned a voice from her doorway. She looked and saw Khalil leaning against it.

"Where did you get _that_?" Lasca exclaimed, for Khalil no longer wore his tattered clothes she met him in. The morning sun glinted off beautiful silver chain mail on his arms and an embroidered silver tree on his dark blue shirt.

"Well, now that I'm officially an ally, I have to wear this to show it. Here, Gandalf sent this for you." He tossed her a bundled-up dress of the same blue as his shirt. Lasca fingered the fabric, and found it stiffer than her own clothes. "Well, are you going to try it on?" asked Khalil. Lasca gave him a dark look.

"Oh yes, I believe I'll strip down in front of you! Get out!" She shoved him out the door and closed it.

"Are you changed?" Khalil asked meekly a few minutes later. The door swung open to reveal Lasca in the dress, looking slightly perplexed.

"It fits, though I feel rather strange in it," she said, tugging at it.

"Ah, pretty as a picture!" said Khalil brightly. "Now come downstairs. Gandalf's waiting."

He led her down the hallway. "Er, Khalil?"

"What?"

"Do you really think I look fine?" Lasca asked quietly. He looked at her in surprise.

"Well, I do not know if I am a good judge of fashion, but to me you look perfectly fine. To be honest, I do not feel very comfortable in this either." He made a face. "After you left last night, I felt as if those men would have killed me at any time, had it not been for Gandalf. He may accept us, though we are still considered enemies by most in this land." He sighed and continued walking through the hallway and down the stairs.

"(Ah, there you are,)" Gandalf greeted them, puffing his pipe. "(Now come and sit, we have much to discuss.)"

He led them to a small table. Khalil began. "(Now sir, I beg you to be honest: if this war is won, have we any chance of pardon?)"

Gandalf puffed thoughtfully. "(There is always a chance, but a good chance? We have yet to see that. It will depend upon many things, not the least upon you two.

"(As you may have surmised from last night, Khalil, the Steward is dead, and his son is badly injured. I will tell you now that the son, Faramir, will be a great ally to you, for he has a compassionate heart. However, his word will carry less weight if the King of Men once again ascends the throne.

"(You saw him last night: he is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. To those who do not know him well, he may seem cold and distant, though underneath his weathered countenance lies a man rich in wisdom.)"

"(Will he be willing to listen to us?)" Asked Lasca.

"(Perhaps. Right now he looks often to me for guidance, but if he becomes King, he will have to look to his own heart and the will of his people.)"

Khalil was staring down at the table. "(The more I think about it, the more hopeless it seems. The only Haradrim most people have seen or heard of are the bloodthirsty warlords. They know not that for every one of them, there are numerous peaceful commoners.)"

"(They will probably think we are simply two exceptions,)" sighed Lasca. There was silence for a minute, save the sound of people walking and talking outside.

"(Perhaps, if you are the only two to speak out.)" Gandalf now looked at them with a new light in his eyes. "(If you were able to find others that wished to be pardoned, your words may carry more weight.)"

"(But the people who hold sway over the tribes' decisions are always the most ruthless,)" replied Lasca, remembering her own tribe's leader. Suddenly Khalil laughed out loud.

"(But what about this battle that just happened? No doubt those who love war and killing came to fight, and now more than likely lie slain.)"

"(Indeed, the Haradrim's coming may have been both a curse and a blessing: many innocents were killed, but many who are evil were killed as well.)" added Gandalf. Lasca was quiet.

"(Yes,)" she finally said. "(Though I cannot glorify this war, what you say is true. And perhaps those who have lost loved ones, such as I, will be tired of having leaders who force their sons, fathers, husbands, and brothers off to a pointless battle. Maybe they will want peace.)" tears began to well up in her eyes, but she made no attempt to stop them, for they were tears of happiness for hope at last.

* * *

Okay, there were slight deviations from the canon in that (having not just Aragorn and the twins in the tent on the night after the battle, but I hope you can forgive me for that ). Well, I hope their plan for gaining pardon looks a little more feasible now. To all my reviewers: _thanks very, very much for all your support!!!!_ You guys are awesome.

**New Fic Up!**Check in my bio- I'd love some reviews, thanks! And yes, I will still continue this one!

Tarock- Khalil and Lasca explain how the Haradrim fought against the North because Sauron promised them better lands than the desert they had to live in. This shows that they were fighting more out of desperation, and not out of cruelty or love of killing. Because of their motive, K and L hope that they will be forgiven. Sorry if you were confused.


	15. Return

**Chapter 14**

**Return**

**NOTE: Parenthesis ( ) now denote Westron, since this website is being EVIL and not showing brackets when I upload. CURSE YOOOUUUU!!!!**

Khalil turned once again in his saddle to grin at Lasca. She rolled her eyes. He now wore a resplendent suit of Gondorian armor, complete with a tunic embroidered with a symbol they had chosen for the new Harad: a hovering golden hawk. Gandalf had suggested finding a new insignia, and both of them had very enthusiastic. It was Lasca who had come up with the idea of the hawk, remembering them from home. "Are you sure about a hawk? Why not an eagle? They're more majestic," suggested Khalil. Lasca laughed.

"What, do you think Harad is 'majestic' by any definition right now? No, we're more like hawks; small but scrappy."

"You have a point, o mistress of symbolism."

"I know I do. How about piling on more, eh? It could look like it's going upwards, rising—"

"Rising above the shadows cast by the sands of the past, piled against it in a huge dune, eagerly trying to swallow it up—" Khalil orchestrated. Lasca raised an eyebrow.

"Wow, and you call me symbolism-obsessed? Not bad, we could work that into the design…" she hunched over a scrap of parchment with a charcoal stick in her hand.

"Uh, you know I was being sarcastic…"

Both Lasca and Khalil attempted to draw it, but Lasca's was the only one that even remotely resembled a feathered creature. They ended up asking Gandalf for help, and he brought them to the best embroiderer he could find: the Evenstar herself. Both Khalil and Lasca spent a very awkward hour with Arwen, trying to get their idea across without embarrassing themselves too much. After many tiny stitches, she showed them the result. "(It's…oh wow,)" Khalil could not find words.

"(…Exquisite,)" Lasca finished for him, trembling fingers brushing the soft threads.

"(Is it true what I hear from Mithrandir? You two plan on saving Harad?)" Arwen questioned.

"(Uh, well, that is the plan,)" answered Khalil sheepishly. Arwen broke into a smile, eyes kind.

"(Then I wish you well on your journey. Doubt not, for I perceive the Valar's presence within you.)"

That had been after the final fall of Sauron. To both Lasca and Khalil, the time leading up to it was torturous in its anticipation. The moment the darkness broke, however, something else seemed to have broken within them: their fear. After what they had gone through, they were eager to finish their own quest. To everyone around them, the fall of Sauron was an end to something; however, to the desert children, it was only a beginning.

Lasca watched Khalil's horse plodding ahead of her, mahogany flanks gleaming in the setting sun. She herself rode Malak, dressed in her old clothes. Gandalf had wanted to send some horsemen with them, but watching the soldiers' laughing faces as they celebrated in the streets, they could not bring themselves to drag them away on a mission they had little to do with. A few days later, they set out in the early morning, slipping out of the city onto the misty field completely unnoticed. Lasca had felt very insignificant as she looked back at the White City that soon would be filled with merriment she was not really a part of.

They journeyed leisurely through southern Gondor, protected by a piece of parchment with the royal seal on it. Despite this, wary glances were constantly cast their way. When they reached the Anduin, a boat ferried them across. All around them were signs of rebuilding: farmers planting in the fields, hoping for the late crop, new houses being made in the place of destroyed dwellings, and the burning of hundreds of orc carcasses. Lasca always prayed silently that her own people were not burning with them.

The bright ribbon of the river Harnen appeared ahead of them one afternoon. When they came upon it, they found to their dismay that the bridge had not been repaired. "I don't blame them, personally," said Khalil, sighing. "I wouldn't want any more murderous men crossing my river, either. Well, you know what to do, let's go." This crossing, much less rushed than the first, went quite uneventfully. They decided to rest on the other side. Lasca gazed south; an ocean of sand spread as far as the eye could see. "Where do you suggest we search first?"

"I think we should cut west-southwest. I know of an oasis there. Bound to be a tribe of some sort."

"Do you really think we can do this?"

Khalil glared at her. "Would you _stop _doubting yourself?! This must be the hundredth time you've asked that!"

"I'm _sorry_! But you do realize how completely bizarre we'll look asking this, right?"

"Fine, if your so nervous about 'how _completely_ _bizarre_ we'll look,'" Khalil replied in a mocking falsetto, "then I'll do all the talking."

"Oh, Valar no! I wouldn't trust you to say anything!"

Khalil just shook his head.

* * *

W00t!! I am officially done with TRAS! I have it all typed up, so it'll be done by the end of the week. Sorry this chapter was so short! The next one is about 1000 words longer. This was more like a filler. I'll be posting the next one in a day or so.

A/N: Okay, in order to have this Ch. make sense, I revised the part in Ch. 12 where Gandalf said Khalil would ride to the Black Gate. I figured that to this story, the final battle was more like a beginning to something (as Lasca thought) and did not hold as much importance.


	16. Emissary

**Chapter 15**

**Emissary**

It took them the rest of the day to come within sight of the oasis. That night, they saw fires there: a definite sign that a tribe was using it. They arrived there the next morning.

The first thing that struck them about the camp was the lack of men. The scouts that spotted them and escorted them to the camp were themselves only twelve or so. Women, old men, and young children stared at them as they passed by to the leader's tent. When they reached it, one of the boys went inside. Soon after he emerged, followed by the tribe leader.

The leader was a woman, no older than twenty or so. However, the lines on her face told a story of one far beyond that age. She was fairly small and curvaceous as most Southron women were, a sense of gracefulness hanging about her. On her hip she held a dark haired baby, quietly sucking his fist. The woman's shadowy eyes regarded the two who stood before her.

"I am Fatima, and in place of my husband I am tribe leader. I have been told that you have come from the White City itself, and wish to speak with me."

"Yes, Lady," replied Khalil, inclining his head. She was silent for a moment.

"Come, then." She led them inside the dark tent, and sat cross-legged on a rug, holding the baby in her lap. They sat on the sand in front of her. "Before you begin, I must ask: is it true that none of our people have survived?" her tone had changed slightly. It had a hint of worry in it.

"I do not know," admitted Lasca. "If any have, they are few."

"It is as I thought, then," sighed Fatima. "Very well, please state your business."

"We have come here to ask you to join us." started Khalil. "We are planning on suing for pardon from Gondor."

"We hope to convince the King and the people that the Haradrim are not all bloodthirsty warriors," continued Lasca. "They do not know that in truth, we have been tricked by Sauron."

"Tricked by Sauron, indeed," said Fatima dryly. "Perhaps others were, but my husband and the other men was just eager for an excuse to fight. They were frustrated that despite everything, we were still living in poverty."

"Yes, as are many others. Survival in a desert is in itself a fight," said Khalil.

"If, however, we become recognized by Gondor, we would be open to trade for food and other goods," Lasca countered. "Perhaps it would be hard for you yourself to journey all the way to Minas Tirith, though someone else—"

"No, I shall go myself," stated Fatima firmly. "Little Halim will be fine. I have long wanted to actually _do_ something to help my tribe, and this is probably my best opportunity, so I thank you." She stood up and bowed. They stood as well and followed her out of the tent.

They stayed in the oasis past noon, eating and getting more supplies. They took little, realizing how few provisions the tribe had. Fatima knew of an oasis just fifteen miles south and would lead them there.

Later that afternoon, after the sun's rays lessened, she met them at the southern end of the oasis. She sat astride a dromedary camel, wearing veils to ward off the sun. Halim was held to her chest in a sling. "My scouts have told me that another tribe is indeed at the other oasis," she told the two as they rode up.

"Oh, good," said Lasca, relieved.

"Lead on, then, Lady Fatima!" Khalil said, hope rising in him.

Their progress was slower than usual, owing to the camel, which did not want to hurry. It was quite dark when they came to the tribe's camp. This group was larger than Fatima's. "Please take us to your head tent," requested Khalil of their escort.

"I shall have to confer with our leader first. Please wait." He darted off into the camp. Ten minutes later he returned, telling them that they would not be received that night. "I am afraid you will have to sleep here, we have no tents to spare."

"Very well," sighed Khalil. The three of them had a hard time falling asleep, for the ground was riddled with lumpy roots from the surrounding growth. Halim seemed to be the only comfortable one.

"He's a very quiet baby," remarked Lasca. "My younger brothers were always yelling."

Fatima smiled. "Yes, thankfully he takes after me and not my husband."

Khalil was quiet. "You seem to be taking all of this very well," he finally said.

"Being forced to lead your people compels you to get over grief quickly," Fatima replied. "Oh, I cried many nights after my husband left. In the morning, though, I always had to at least pretend everything was all right. It was the hardest thing I have ever done."

"I guess that's true," Lasca thought out loud. "I thought I never was going to get over my father, but I've nearly forgotten my grief because I'm caught up in—" Suddenly she fell silent. Voices were coming closer to them. Soon, however, they stopped, and all that could be heard was the slight rustling of cloaks. None of the three dared to move. They lay on their backs, staring up into the treetops.

The figures came upon them; three men bearing weapons. Two of them hastily pinned down Khalil, binding his hands behind his back. He yelled angrily, trying to fight them off. Halim began wailing. Both Lasca and Fatima rushed to Khalil, but the third man blocked their way, holding a spear. "What in _hell_—!" exclaimed Khalil before a gag cut off his voice. The women were untouched, but made to march with Khalil in front of their captors. Lasca was in shock; Fatima clutched Halim to her chest nervously.

They found themselves being forced into the leader's tent. The light was dim; they could see a shadowy figure at the back of the tent. The captors shoved them onto their knees and removed Khalil's gag. "We got them, sir. The traitor in Gondorian armor and the girls."

"Leave now," commanded the figure, speech clipped. The three men bowed and left. He walked into the light. Lasca stifled a gasp.

Before them stood a tall and muscular middle-aged Southron man. His scarred face was quite severe as he glared down at them from under a sharp brow. His beard was short. He was decked out in the armor of the Haradrim, though it was quite worn. The most noticeable thing, however, was his right arm, or rather the lack of it. "I am Al'alim, leader of this tribe," he stated. "And you," he turned to Khalil, "are either brainwashed or a traitor to your people. I predict the latter. Weak men are quick to abandon their country at the slightest sign of trouble."

"If I am indeed a traitor," Khalil spat, "It is only to Sauron. And if you serve him, than I believe it is _you_ who betrays your country!"

"Tell me, boy," said Al'alim, voice dangerously low, "who is it that offered us land and wealth?"

"Surely you do not _think_ Sauron was going to keep his promise!" piped up Lasca, anger overcoming her fear. "You are blind! Sauron was using us to his own ends, and now we are taking our lives back. If you keep us from our mission, you may live to regret it."

"And what mission would that be, girl?"

"They are on a mission of diplomacy," Fatima spoke, "to leaders of the tribes of Harad. With our help, they hope to show the world that we are not wretched servants of Sauron. In this way, they; no, _we, _hope to gain pardon from Gondor, and establish ourselves as a noble land. What more reason could you ask for to let us go?" she finished forcefully. Al'alim's mouth turned up in a grin. He then began to laugh derisively.

"So, you are going to crawl on your bellies to the King and ask him to forgive and forget?!" he asked as if it were the funniest thing he had ever heard. "Then there is great reason to keep you here. I will not allow my country to look so weak as that! I fought and kept my pride!"

"And what else have you gained?" asked Khalil quietly. Al'alim suddenly grew grim.

"Gained? No, you must mean what I have lost. I was there, at the Black Gates. I saw the King and his measly troops. I could almost smell the good earth I would soon own and farm." He paused. "With every man I cut down, I was that much closer. Then…then Barad Dûr fell. We were routed. My dream was taken." He stopped again. "Then the earth began to crack. My brother and I ran, ran for our lives. I thought we made it, but I looked beside me, and he was gone. All that was there was abyss. My family was taken." He sighed heavily. "Though, I still have one thing: dignity. And I'm not going to give it away to some King who tried to kill me!" he roared. Lasca sensed, however, there was more anguish than rage in his voice.

"Tell me, Al'alim," asked Khalil, "What takes more strength: to be stubborn or to swallow one's pride?" So, he had sensed it too.

Al'alim paused mid-breath, staring at the white-haired boy. A moment later he regained his composure, however. "I see you know more of this world than I thought you did. For that, I will let you live to see morning. Guards!" the three men came back in. They brought the three back to their sleeping spot, but did not bother to untie Khalil. Lasca attempted to cut the cords with her scimitar, but it was far too large and clumsy to wield delicately. They gave up, hoping to find some other way in the morning.

When Lasca woke the next day, it was because of a sawing sound. She glanced at Khalil, who was awake, and nearly screamed: Al'alim was bent over him with a knife. It took her a second to realize that he was sawing his bonds. "Thanks," said Khalil grumpily, "but you know you could have done it last night. Now my shoulders are stiff, and hurt like hell, I might add."

"I apologize, boy, though last night I wasn't sure if I wanted you free."

"What changed your mind?" asked Fatima, newly woken.

"It was what he said last night," replied Al'alim, turning to the woman and her babe. "They were some of the first words I had heard in a long time that had truth to them."

Fatima smiled. "I know what you mean."

"So…are we free to go?" asked Lasca.

"More than that: I wish to accompany you. In the name of my brother," Al'alim said, smiling sadly. "He would have wanted it." Lasca felt her heart go out to him.

* * *

Rede: Thanks, please keep reviewing!

For those of you who are reading this, please please PLEASE review! I want to know if my writing's any good! I want to know your opinions! Yes, that means you, lurking over there!!

Tarock: Well, Al'alim didn't wake up thinking that; he was up all night pondering Khalil's words. However, you are right in saying that we don't get to see it since the story is not through his perspective. Thanks for the review!


	17. Emissary II

**Chapter 16**

**Emissary II**

Later that morning the four set out, Al'alim mounted on a scrappy gray stallion. They decided to head southeast. Not too long into their journey, a tiny dark speck appeared ahead of them on the sand. As they came closer, they realized that it was someone on a small steed. 

"No, wait! It's two people!" informed Lasca, shading her eyes. Voices reached her ears. "Hey, I think they need help." However, she had misinterpreted the sounds.

A rather strange scene met their eyes as they came upon them. An elderly woman sat astride a small donkey. An old man, presumably her husband, was leading it. They both had white hair, the man's very thin. Their skin was very wrinkled and leathery. They were not calling for help; they were singing, rather off key. It was an old folk song. They sang in time with the donkey's steps, and his long head and sad face nodded in time as well. Lasca had to stifle a laugh. The elderly couple caught sight of them. "Oh, Gadiel! Is it bandits?!" fearfully questioned the old lady in a scratchy voice. The old man brandished his walking stick.

"Now, look here!" he cried angrily at the four. "We are on a noble mission, and have very little money! You best leave us be!"

"And what mission would that be?" asked Fatima, amused.

"We are going to the King of Gondor and ask him to help our country!" answered the woman defiantly. The four gaped at them.

"Ha, well, what a coincidence! So are we!" said Khalil finally.

"Well, sir, you are heading the wrong way. Gondor is north you know. You should know that at your age," replied Gadiel.

"Er, my age? I'm only seventeen," Khalil answered.

"But you have white hair! Get down here so I can have a better look at you."

Khalil obligingly dismounted and walked up to Gadiel. The old man grabbed his chin and peered in his face. "Hmmmm, well, you sure _look_ young…no wrinkles…got all your teeth…" it was then Khalil noticed Gadiel was missing quite a few. "Well," Gadiel straightened up. "I guess you are a youngster. Now, what was it you said? You're going to save Harad too?"

"Yes," Lasca replied. They had all dismounted at this point. "We're going around Harad looking for people who want to join us."

"Well, isn't this just perfect!" the old woman clapped her hands. "We can join you! I am Mariam, by the way."

Al'alim looked like he had misgivings. He had a private word with the other three. "Are we sure we want them to join us?" he asked. "They'll slow us down, and we're already going slow enough, with Mom here…" he jutted a thumb at Fatima, who gave him a chilly glare.

"Come on, we can't just leave them out in the desert!" pleaded Lasca. "Anyway, aren't we looking for different people to support our cause? I hadn't thought of elders, but they are important."

"I must agree with Lasca," Fatima said.

"Me too," seconded Khalil.

"Oh, very well."

So the four continued on their way, now with six. "By the way," asked Fatima as they rode, "why do you want to do this?"

Mariam sighed. "Gadiel and I had four sons in our time. All of them went off to war. All of them died."

"I'm sorry," said Khalil sympathetically.

"Both of us were," Gadiel replied. "However, we came to realize that we were more sorry for ourselves for enduring such a horrible loss."

"We decided we had to do something," continued Mariam. "Something that would prevent this from happening ever again. We left our tribe and set out."

"In our hearts we knew there was little chance of our succeeding, but it felt good to be doing something. Now, however, I really think we will make a difference." Gadiel smiled up at Lasca. She smiled back, though wanly. A burden seemed to have settled on her shoulders.

That evening they all rejoiced as a large oasis came into view. All, that is, except Lasca. Gadiel's words had triggered something in her mind. _When I get back, _she thought, _I have to convince whole nations –that we have attacked— that we are not all that bad. Oh, dear Valar… _She stared down at Malak's dark mane, mind working furiously. Khalil noticed her silence.

"Hey, don't worry about anything now. Remember what Arwen said."

"Yes, yes, the Valar are with us," Lasca replied absentmindedly. Khalil knew it was no use.

It turned out that a few tribes had gathered at the oasis. The six were free to go anywhere, since it was no single tribe's ground. They split up. Khalil and Lasca walked around together. They were attracted by a commotion nearby.

Pushing through the crowd, they came upon a performance troupe. Two women, stunningly beautiful and nearly identical, danced to drums, tambourines, and flutes. The women wore bells on their wrists and ankles. Their flowing movements mesmerized Lasca, firelight glinting off their dark hair.

Looking around, something surprised her: all the people watching were smiling and laughing, clapping in time to the rhythm. Elsewhere in the camp, no one had seemed the least bit happy. She told this to Khalil. He smiled knowingly. "I know. It's amazing that music and dancing alone can lift the spirits, even in times such as these."

Lasca continued to watch. Among the musicians, there was one man who stood out: he was large and jovial; his white-bearded face in a constant smile that looked like it could erupt into laughs at any second, and it often did. He seemed to be the lead drummer. Lasca was amazed at how deftly his large hands could produce such complicated rhythms.

People began trickling away as the show ended, but Khalil led Lasca towards the group. "Farran! Hey, Farran! Is that you?" he called to the drummer. He turned.

"Well, I'll be damned! Khalil, I thought I'd never see you again!" he roared good-naturedly, clapping him on the back. "Oh, and who might this be?" he asked slyly, eyeing Lasca. She felt blush rising in her cheeks.

"I'm Lasca, sir," she said timidly.

"Oho!" Farran said knowingly, turning back to Khalil. "And here Dalia was telling me that _she _was yours!"

Khalil blushed deeper than Lasca. "Uh, I don't th—"

"What was that, daddy?" asked one of the dancer girls, appearing at Farran's side. She looked at the two. "Oh, Khalil!" she exclaimed, embracing him. Lasca felt herself grow hotter.

"Sister, I hope you remember you're promised to another man," said the other dancing girl dryly, walking up to them.

"I know, Buthaynah! C'mon, I was kidding," she giggled. "Let's go, we have to set up the tents." They walked off. "See you, dear!" she called back to Khalil.

Farran chuckled, watching them leave. "So what brings you here, in Gondorian armor, no less?"

"How did you know?" asked Khalil, looking down at his cloak.

"I caught a glimpse of it when Dalia attacked you," he laughed.

"Well, it's a bit of a long story…"

"Come and sit, we have all night."

Farran brought them to his tent. The two related the story to him.

"By the way, Farran, what happened to Abdul?" asked Khalil awkwardly. The older man sighed.

"My son got conscripted at a camp we stopped at. He did not want to, knowing the truth about our history—"

"Wait a second, you know the story?" exclaimed Khalil. Farran nodded.

"Singers and storytellers often know the truth, boy. The songs have been passed down through my family from a time when we were not sundered from other Men."

"We know them by heart," said Dalia, entering the tent.

"Yes, they have been passed down to us," added Buthaynah, appearing behind her. "However, Sauron didn't like the truth being told. Were we to have spread our knowledge, our corpses would be drying in the sand by now," she stated matter-of-factly. Dalia gave her a horrified look.

"Well, now that my lovely twin daughters have decided to join us," Farran said, "I'll give you a proposition: we shall join you and help you in your cause."

After eagerly accepting Farran's offer, Lasca and Khalil walked back to their site. "When did you meet them?" asked Lasca, turning to Khalil.

"Oh, I've run into them plenty of times. They're good people, like family," He said. "Farran's taught me a lot, just about life, really. I've always been good friends with the twins." He laughed. "I've known Dalia liked me for a long time."

"Er, what do you think of her?" Lasca asked tentatively. Khalil gave her an odd look.

"I think of her more like a sister. Why?"

"Nothing, really. What's Buthaynah like? She seems so, I don't know…"

"Blunt? Yeah, that's her." Khalil laughed. "She doesn't care what comes out of her mouth as long as she gets her point across." They were silent for a moment.

"Khalil, do you suppose we have enough people?"

He was thoughtful for a minute. "Yes, I think we do. There are nine of us. Huh, isn't that funny! Just like the Fellowship."

"I suppose we are a fellowship of sorts," Lasca laughed softly, then fell silent.

"…What's wrong?"

"I was just wishing I would find my tribe again. I know there's little chance; they could be anywhere."

"Don't worry; I'll help you search another time." Khalil paused. "I was thinking we would head directly east towards the Harad Road and go from there. Maybe…maybe I could…" Khalil let his thought hang.

"Maybe you could what?" asked Lasca, glancing at him. He was gazing at the sky.

"…I was thinking I should see my family again."

* * *

Okay, two more chapters after this, including a small epilogue. This is the home stretch, people, and boy is the next chapter packed! Thank you for reading this far! Oh, and to you people who have me on author alert but haven't reviewed, I know who you are!!

Rede: The funny thing is I actually considered that at one point. I don't think I have enough time left to develop their relationship though. However, I could have a little something after the epilogue and say what my secondary charas are up to. Tell me what you think. Thanks!


	18. Reconciled

**Chapter 17**

**Reconciled**

As they had planned it, Khalil and Lasca quietly left their camp on the Harad Road that night and headed to a small oasis not a mile east.

"Khalil…"

"What?"

"Er, why do you only want to take me?" Lasca asked as they trudged along. Khalil did not answer for a whole minute.

"…You'll see." He finally said.

Lasca knew something was wrong. Khalil, usually cool and collected, was very tense. She herself had a small sense of foreboding in her stomach.

They reached the oasis after what seemed an eternity. Khalil stopped at the edge, took a deep breath, and plunged forward on a narrow path. Lasca followed. It went a ways, rounded a bend and led to a large clearing. Khalil stopped short.

Before him stood the charred frame of a wooden house. It had been that way for some time, for the smell of burning wood had gone. The trees all around were scorched as well. Khalil took a few steps forward and stood, transfixed. Lasca was speechless.

"I…I knew it," he whispered hoarsely. "That night, with the Nazgúl…I saw the house burning, my family being slain by Orcs…my mother, she was screaming…I knew…I told you the visions were lies…but…but I knew…" he fell silent.

Lasca forced her legs to move. She walked up to him and looked at his face. Silent tears were streaming down. A huge wave of pity and love and compassion welled up in her. This boy had been with her through the toughest times in her life. Without him, she would have simply crawled into a hole and died when adversity faced her. He was her rock, her comfort, for all his quirks. Without a word, she embraced him, feeling he would slip away if she let go. They stood there for eternity as the stars wheeled overhead.

On the way back to Gondor, neither Lasca nor Khalil talked much. They told no one about what they had found. Lasca knew subconsciously Khalil wanted it so. It seemed that their bond had tightened substantially since that night. Each now understood the other, having been with them through their worst fears come to life.

Lasca no longer felt worried about what she would say. Something in the back of her mind told her the words would come.

Once the nine arrived at Minas Tirith, everything became a whirlwind of activity. All of them were introduced to the King, and each gave their argument on why Harad should be pardoned. It was decided, however, that the plea for pardon would be a single speech given to the King and the people of the White City in the courtyard of the White Tree. Realizing she would be addressing hundreds of people, Lasca felt a twinge of fear. However, when the day arrived, she simply felt resolve. The other eight Haradrim said little to each other, but in their own way lent their support to her. Soon all her doubts were drowned out by her sheer conviction that what she was doing was right and good.

The nine Haradrim stood on a raised platform, well over the crowd. Lasca stood in front, dressed in her usual clothes. Many in the audience were muttering and pointing at her. She kept her head high, stealing a glance to her left. Khalil offered her a smile. A second later the silver trumpets sounded, and a herald introduced Lasca and told of her plea. It was met with a few catcalls, though mostly shocked glances. Taking a deep breath, she began.

"(People of Minas Tirith, I stand before you today as one who has been wronged by Sauron. I, and my people.

"(Promising us escape from our harsh desert by offering us the fair lands of the North, he hoped to spur us to battle. Many among us, forced to watch our families scrounge for food year after year, agreed to fight, desperate for a better life. We cared not that Sauron was known for his shrewd deceitfulness, for we felt it was the only chance we had at survival.

"(Many had also heard stories passed down from their forefathers of the few cruel Nùmenorean Lords who suppressed the Haradrim. This also led many to fight against Gondor.

"(I do not beg for pardon alone, for I know that few foreigners know the true people of Harad. They stand before you now.

"(A mother; widowed by war.

"(A soldier; beaten, broken, and disillusioned.

"(Elders, forced to watch their children die before themselves.

"(Singers and storytellers, the few who know the real history of our people and who would be killed if they were to reveal it to them.

"(A boy who has lost his whole family.

"(And I who have lost my father.

"(All of us, searching for a grain of truth in a desert of lies. This is the face of Harad Sauron hid from you! He did not want you to see that, though many miles separate us, in heart and mind we are as brothers and sisters.

"(I stand here today also as one who has been forced to shoulder the burden of my ancestors. I speak of those wretched Men who betrayed the Alliance to Morgoth, the Black Foe of the World, during the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears.)"

Here Lasca paused, breathing hard. Her vision became blurry, and the crowd swam before her eyes. In its place she saw shadowy figures of Men and Elves. In her ears the sounds of battle roared. She could see the faces of three very clearly. Subconsciously she knew who they were. Two were Men of similar look and build, and both with fair hair: the brothers Hùrin and Huor. Their gazes pierced her mind. They were nothing, however, compared to the third figure: an Elf Lord with dark hair and clear gray eyes. This was Fingon, the High King of the Noldor himself. He was standing, though his tattered clothes and armor were awash in blood and much of him was badly burned. His gaze was not piercing; rather, it was a sad, hopeless look. Lasca wished he would look away from her; she felt she was going to cry. Desperately she continued talking, though she could barely hear herself over the clashes and screams.

"(Though I still mourn for those lost in that fateful battle,)" she continued, the roaring reaching a fevered pitch, "(I know in my heart that those powerless to change what happened should not be condemned!)" she cried. Fingon closed his eyes, bowing his head. The vision and the noise faded. Lasca found herself looking at an awed crowd. "(In finishing my plea…I simply ask you to find it in your hearts to understand and forgive.)" She looked around at the faces turned towards her. As her eyes met each one, she connected with the person. More than anything, she wanted each person to know her pain and see that it was the same they held in their hearts, and that her hope was their hope. A sudden presence above her made her glance up. Nothing was there, save for the giant blue bowl of sky. However, she knew she was being watched over. A slow smile spread on her face as a sense of peace enveloped her. The golden Sun hung in the firmament, shining down on all.

* * *

Okay, only the epilogue to go. Perhaps I'm overreacting, but are only two or three people actually reading this? I'll finish it, but part of the reason I write is so I can get feedback from others. I can't make you review, but please consider it. Thanks.


	19. Epilogue

**Epilogue – Seven Years Later**

A dark-tanned woman emerged from the Houses of Healing onto the city street. She wore a long dress and an overcoat to guard against the unusually cold winter. Tiny snowflakes fluttered through the air. A bustling woman followed her out. "(_Please_, Lasca, I am serious! You are too far along! You simply cannot make any more lengthy journeys!)"

The younger woman laughed. "(Very well, ma'am, I swear on my swelling stomach itself that I won't leave the City until this is over.)" She placed a hand over her rounded belly. The woman smiled.

"(Very well. Isn't that husband of yours supposed to be here now?)"

"(Did somebody mention me?)" A lanky young man with shocking white hair suddenly appeared behind Lasca. In one swift motion he scooped her up off the ground.

"(Hey, put me down, Khalil!)" She protested, turning red. The Healer laughed, shaking her head and walking back inside.

"(Not on your life, my dear,)" he replied giving her a fond peck on the forehead. He swung around and headed down the street with his burden. "(My, but you _are _getting heavy, aren't you?)"

"(It's not _me, _it's this one inside here,)" she said, touching her stomach.

"(Twins, you think?)"

"(Oh, dear Valar I hope not. Between you and one definitely coming, I have enough children to take care of.)" Khalil snorted derisively. "(I still don't see why you got appointed Ambassador to Harad,)" she continued doggedly. "(How is the King supposed to get a hold of you if you're always itching to be off somewhere else?)"

"(True, but he won't have to worry about that for now. I am not leaving the side of my wife and child for a while yet.)" He stopped at a door, and somehow managed to open it without dropping his wife. The inside was thankfully warm. He set her down carefully on the floor. She stood on tiptoe and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

"(So, how did it go down at the Harnen?)"

"(The bridge is built!)" He said happily, eyes twinkling. "(Personally overseen by dwarves. Solid stone. Completely inflammable. That thing is not coming down even if the world were to end tomorrow.)"

_The End_

* * *

The Others, Seven Years Later:

Fatima: Lives with the rest of her tribe in a permanent settlement on the river Harnen. She helps monitor trade to and from Harad. Her son Halim is preparing to go to a boarding school in Minas Tirith in three years.

Al'alim: In charge of a breeding program between the horses of Rohan, the Maeras, and the desert horses. He and others from both countries hope to create a stock with the endurance of the desert horses and the hardiness of the Maeras. He works often with Fatima, and is quite smitten with her. He plans to propose to her as soon as he gets his nerve up.

Gadiel and Mariam: They both are living out their days in Fatima's village.

Farran: while traveling around Harad and preaching, a former Haradrim soldier murdered him. He was entombed in a cairn with honors near the mouth of the Anduin.

Buthaynah: She is currently betrothed to a Gondorian and lives in Ithilien; however, she still travels with her sister from time to time.

Dalia: She is continuing preaching to the Haradrim with her husband in her father's name. In a few years, she plans to travel to the East to spread her message as well.

* * *

To their surprise (and delight), Lasca and Khalil do become the parents of twins: two boys, Faraj and Farran.

* * *

…And there you have it. I hope you have enjoyed this story as much as I have. Thank you, and a special thanks to reviewers.

Rede: I did that just for you! ; ) Actually, it was a really good idea, thanks!

Celtic Rune: I'm glad you think Lasca did well! I think I can safely say I wrote her without her becoming a Mary Sue.


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